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THE BUTCHER LOOKED DOWN AT THE FUNNY FACE AND SAW THE KINDLY MOTIVE 
UNDER THE EXAGGERATED BLUFFNESS 


[PAGE T2l 




THE BOY SCOUTS 
BOOK OF STORIES 


EDITED 

WITH INTRODUCTION AND NOTES 


BY 

FRANKLIN K. MATHIEWS 

CHIEF SCOUT LIBRARIAN 
BOY SCOUTS OF AMERICA 


PUBLISHED FOR 

THE BOY SCOUTS OF AMERICA 



ILLUSTRATED BY 
WALT LOUDERBACK 

DECORATIONS BY 
ARTHUR D. SCOTT 



D. APPLETON AND COMPANY 

NEW YORK LONDON 


1919 




COPYRIGHT, 1919, BY 

D. APPLETON AND COMPANY 


JUN 14 ! c? 1 9 


PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA 


©CI.A51588 3 


BY WAY OF INTRODUCTION 


So much of my time is given to reading boys’ books 
that, when I read books for grown-ups, now and again 
I find myself saying, “What a bully story for boys to 
read!” Latterly, I have been putting down the titles 
of such stories. When the list began to lengthen, it 
occurred to me, why not make a book for boys contain- 
ing stories like that : stories written for grown-ups but 
also of interest to boys in their early teens. 

Such a collection of stories could not be made, how- 
ever, without the consent of the authors and publishers, 
but since everybody loves a boy, I didn’t have much 
trouble in convincing them they ought to grant per- 
mission to use their stories for such a purpose and, as 
a result, I am pleased to present to the boy readers of 
our country the Boy Scouts Book of Stories. 

Looking over the list, I find it covers pretty well the 
reading interests of boys. There are stories about boy 
scouts, school stories, stories of the sea and “wild 
west” stories, detective and mystery stories; most of 
all, though, a goodly number of humorous stories, and 
I am willing to hazard the guess there will be no re- 
grets on the part of readers because the selections hap- 
pen to abound in stories of the latter sort. 

How about it, boys? 
















































* 

























































CONTENTS 





PAGE 

I. 

The Great Big Man . . 

. Owen Johnson 

i 

II. 

A Twilight Adventure . 

Melville Davisson Post 

27 

III. 

Tad Sheldon, Second Class Scout 

John Fleming Wilson 

45 

IV. 

The Red-Headed League . 

Arthur Conan Doyle 

7 i 

V. 

The Ransom of Red Chiei 

' ... 0 . Henry 

108 

VI. 

The Honk-Honk Breed . 

Stewart Edward White 

125 

VII. 

The Devil-Fish . . . . 

. Norman Duncan 

140 

VIII. 

The Jumping Frog . . 


155 

IX. 

Bingism 


165 

X. 

Concho Curly at the Op’ra 

Edward Beecher Bronson 

191 

XI. 

The Lie 

. Hermann Hagedorn 

206 

XII. 

Story of the Bandbox . 

Robert Louis Stevenson 

229 

XIII. 

The Hero and the Cowboy Joseph C. Lincoln 

265 

XIV. 

The Dollar .... 

. Morgan Robertson 

289 

XV. 

The Mascot of “Troop i’ 

’ . Stephen Chalmers 

3 i 5 

XVI. 

The Lion’s Smile . . 

Thomas W. Hanshew 

330 

XVII. 

The Roll-Call of the Reef A. T . Quiller-Couch 

361 

XVIII. 

The House and the Brain 

Lord Edward Bulwer-Lytton 

Go 

Oo 

On 


I 








ILLUSTRATIONS 

FACING 

PAGE 


The butcher looked down at the funny face and saw the 
kindly motive under the exaggerated bluffness 

Frontispiece 

“Some of the men stood about; behind thfem two men 
sat on their horses, their elbows strapped to their 
bodies” 32 

“I went to leeward and there found me bould Tad 
launchin’ the little dingy” 64 

The black scout jumps on Bill’s back and digs his heels 
in his side 120 

“ ’Tis the devil-fish!” screamed Bobby 140 

“But before he could lite on her with his knife, I hopped 
out of my close-pen into the canon ” 204 

He woke and gave a low cry. Some one was sitting on 
his bed 224 

“For a second it left off rainin’ sand, and there was a 
typhoon of mud and spray” 272 















I. — The Great Big Man* 

By Owen Johnson 



HE noon bell was about to ring, the one 


glorious spring note of that inexorable 


“Gym” bell that ruled the school with its iron 
tongue. For at noon, on the first liberating stroke, 
the long winter term died and the Easter vacation 
became a fact. 

Inside Memorial Hall the impatient classes stirred 
nervously, counting off the minutes, sitting gingerly 
on the seat-edges for fear of wrinkling the carefully 
pressed suits or shifting solicitously the sharpened 
trousers in peril of a bagging at the knees. Heav- 
ens ! how interminable the hour was, sitting there in 
a planked shirt and a fashion-high collar — and what 
a recitation! Would Easter ever begin, that long- 

* Reprinted by special permission from “The Prodigious 
Hickey.” Copyright, 1908, by Little, Brown and Company. 


I 


THE BOY SCOUTS BOOK OF STORIES 


coveted vacation when the growing boy, according 
to theory, goes home to rest from the fatiguing drain- 
ing of his brain, but in reality returns exhausted by 
dinners, dances, and theaters, with perhaps a little 
touch of the measles to exchange with his neighbors. 
Even the masters droned through the perfunctory 
exercises, flunking the boys by twos and threes, by 
groups, by long rows, but without malice or emotion. 

Outside, in the roadway, by the steps, waited a 
long, incongruous line of vehicles, scraped together 
from every stable in the countryside, forty-odd. A 
few buggies for nabobs in the Upper House, two- 
seated rigs (holding eight), country buckboards, ex- 
cursion wagons to be filled according to capacity at 
twenty-five cents the trip, hacks from Trenton, and 
the regulation stage-coach — all piled high with bags 
and suitcases, waiting for the bell that would start 
them on the scramble for the Trenton station, five 
miles away. At the horses’ heads the lazy negroes 
lolled, drawing languid puffs from their cigarettes, 
unconcerned. 

Suddenly the bell rang out, and the supine team- 
sters, galvanizing into life, jumped to their seats. 
The next moment, down the steps, pell-mell, scram- 
bling and scuffling, swarming over the carriages, with 
joyful clamor, the school arrived. In an instant the 
first buggies were off, with whips frantically plied, 
disputing at a gallop the race to Trenton. 

Then the air was filled with shouts. 


2 


THE GREAT BIG MAN 


“ Where's Butsey?” 

‘‘Oh, you, Red Dog!” 

“Where’s my bag?” 

“Jump in!” 

“Oh, we’ll never get there !” 

“Drive on!” 

“Don’t wait!” ‘ 

“Where’s Jack?” 

“Hurry up, you loafer!” 

“Hurry up, you butter-fingers !” 

“Get in!” 

“Pile in!” 

“Haul him in!” 

“We’re off!” 

“Hurrah!” 

Wagon after wagon, crammed with joyful boy- 
hood, disappeared in a cloud of dust, while back 
returned a confused uproar of broken cheers, snatches 
of songs, with whoops and shrieks for more speed 
dominating the whole. The last load rollicked away 
to join the mad race, where far ahead a dozen bug- 
gies, with foam-flecked horses, vied with one an- 
other, their youthful jockeys waving their hats, 
hurling defiance back and forth, or shrieking with 
delight as each antagonist was caught and left behind. 

The sounds of striving died away, the campus 
grew still once more. The few who had elected to 
wait until after luncheon scattered hurriedly about 
3 


THE BOY SCOUTS BOOK OF STORIES 


the circle and disappeared in the houses, to fling 
last armfuls into the already bursting trunks. 

On top of Memorial steps the Great Big Man re- 
mained, solitary and marooned, gazing over the fields, 
down the road to Trenton, where still the rising dust- 
clouds showed the struggle toward vacation. He 
stood like a monument, gazing fixedly, struggling with 
all the might of his twelve years to conquer the awful 
feeling of homesickness that came to him. Home- 
sickness — the very word was an anomaly : what home 
had he to go to? An orphan without ever having 
known his father, scarcely remembering his mother 
in the hazy reflections of years, little Joshua Tibbets 
had arrived at the school at the beginning of the 
winter term, to enter the shell,* and gradually pass 
through the forms in six or seven years. 

The boys of the Dickinson, after a glance at his 
funny little body and his plaintive, doglike face, had 
baptized him the “Great Big Man” (Big Man for 
short), and had elected him the child of the house. 

He had never known what homesickness was be- 
fore. He had had a premonition of it, perhaps, from 
time to time during the last week, wondering a little 
in the classroom as each day Snorky Green, beside 
him, calculated the days until Easter, then the hours, 
then the minutes. He had watched him with an 
amused, uncomprehending interest. Why was he so 
anxious to be off? After all, he, the Big Man, found 
* The “shell” is the lowest class. 

4 


THE GREAT BIG MAN 


it a pleasant place, after the wearisome life from 
hotel to hotel. He liked the boys; they were kind 
to him, and looked after his moral and spiritual wel- 
fare with bluff but affectionate solicitude. It is true, 
one was always hungry, and only ten and a half 
hours’ sleep was a refinement of cruelty unworthy of 
a great institution. But it was pleasant running over 
to the jigger-shop and doing errands for giants like 
Reiter and Butcher Stevens, with the privileges of 
the commission. He liked to be tumbled in the grass 
by the great tackle of the football eleven, or thrown 
gently from arm to arm like a medicine-ball, quits for 
the privileges of pommeling his big friends ad libitum 
and without fear of reprisals. And then what a 
privilege to be allowed to run out on the field and 
fetch the nose-guard or useless bandage, thrown down 
haphazard, with the confidence that he, the Big Man, 
was there to fetch and guard ! Then he was permitted 
to share their studies, to read slowly from handy, 
literal translations, his head cushioned on the Egg- 
head’s knee, while the lounging group swore genially 
at Pius Zineas or sympathized with Catiline. He 
shagged elusive balls and paraded the bats at shoul- 
der-arms. He opened the mail, and sorted it, fetch- 
ing the bag from Farnum’s. He was even allowed 
to stand treat to the mighty men of the house when- 
ever the change in his pocket became too heavy for 
comfort. 

In return he was taught to box, to wind tennis 

5 


THE BOY SCOUTS BOOK OF STORIES 


rackets, to blacken shoes, to crease trousers, and sew 
on the buttons of the house. Nothing was lacking 
to his complete happiness. 

Then lately he had begun to realize that there was 
something else in the school life, outside it, but very 
much a part of it — vacation. 

At first the idea of quitting such a fascinating life 
was quite incomprehensible to him. What gorging 
dinner-party could compare with the thrill of feasting 
at midnight on crackers and cheese, deviled han, boned 
chicken, mince pie and root beer, by the light of a 
solitary candle, with the cracks of the doors and win- 
dows smothered with rugs and blankets, listening at 
every mouthful for the tread of the master that some- 
times (oh, acme of delight!) actually passed unsus- 
pectingly by the door ? 

Still, there was a joy in leaving all this. He be- 
gan to notice it distinctly when the trunks were hauled 
from the cellar and the packing began. The packing 
— what a lark that had been ! He had folded so many 
coats and trousers, carefully, in their creases, under 
Macnooder’s generous instructions, and, perched on 
the edge of the banisters like a queer little marmoset, 
he had watched Wash Simmons throw great armfuls 
of assorted clothing into the trays and churn them 
into place with a baseball bat, while the Triumphant 
Egghead carefully built up his structure with nicety 
and tenderness. Only he, the Big Man, sworn to 
secrecy, knew what Hickey had surreptitiously in- 
6 


THE GREAT BIG MAN 


serted in the bottom of Egghead’s trunk, and also 
what, from the depths of Wash’s muddled clothing, 
would greet the fond mother or sister who did the 
unpacking; and every time he thought of it he 
laughed one of those laughs that pain. Then glee- 
fully he had watched Macnooder stretching a strap 
until it burst with consequences dire, to the complete 
satisfaction of Hickey, Turkey, Wash, and the Egg- 
head, who, embracing fondly on the top of another 
trunk, were assisting Butcher Stevens to close an im- 
possible gap. 

Yet into all this amusement a little strain of melan- 
choly had stolen. Here was a sensation of which he 
was not part, an emotion he did not know. Still, his 
imagination did not seize it; he could not think of 
the halls quiet, with no familiar figures lolling out of 
the windows, or a campus unbrokenly green. 

Now from his lonely eerie on Memorial steps, look- 
ing down the road to vacation, the Great Big Man 
suddenly understood — understood and felt. It was 
he who had gone away, not they. The school he 
loved was not with him, but roaring down to Tren- 
ton. No one had thought to invite him for a visit; 
but then, why should any one? 

“I’m only a runt, after all,” he said, angrily, to 
himself. He stuck his fists deep in his pockets, and 
went down the steps like a soldier and across the 
campus chanting valorously the football slogan : 

7 


THE BOY SCOUTS BOOK OF STORIES 


Bill kicked, 

Dunham kicked. 

They both kicked together, 

But Bill kicked mighty hard. 

Flash ran, 

Charlie ran, 

Then Pennington lost her grip; 

She also lost the championship— 

Siss, boom, ah ! 

After all, he could sleep late; that was something. 
Then in four days the baseball squad would return, 
and there would be long afternoon practices to watch, 
lolling on the turf, with an occasional foul to re- 
trieve. He would read “The Count of Monte 
Cristo, ,, and follow “The Three Musketeers” through 
a thousand far-off adventures, and “Lorna Doone,” 
— there was always the great John Ridd, bigger even 
than Turkey or the Waladoo Bird. 

Fie arrived resolutely at the Dickinson, and started 
up the deserted stairs for his room. There was only 
one thing he feared; he did not want Mrs. Rogers, 
wife of the housemaster, to “mother” him. Any- 
thing but that! He was glad that after luncheon he 
would have to take his meals at the Lodge. That 
would avert embarrassing situations, for whatever his 
friends might think, he, the Great Big Man, was a 
runt in stature only. 

To express fully the excessive gayety he enjoyed, he 
tramped to his room, bawling out: 

“ ’Tis a jolly life we lead, 

Care and sorrow we defy.” 

8 


THE GREAT BIG MAN 


All at once a gruff voice spoke : 

“My what a lot of noise for a Great Big Man!” 

The Big Man stopped thunderstruck. The voice 
came from Butcher Stevens’ room. Cautiously he 
tiptoed down the hall and paused, with his funny lit- 
tle nose and eyes peering around the door-jamb. Sure 
enough, there was Butcher, and there were the Butch- 
er’s trunks and bags. What could it mean? 

“I say,” he began, according to etiquette, “is that 
you, Butcher?” 

“Very much so, Big Man.” 

“What are you doing here?” 

“The faculty, Big Man, desire my presence,” said 
the Butcher, sarcastically. “They would like my ex- 
pert advice on a few problems that are />^rplexing 
them.” 

“Ah,” said the Great Big Man, slowly. Then he 
understood. The Butcher had been caught two nights 
before returning by Sawtelle’s window at a very late 
hour. He did not know exactly the facts because he 
had been told not to be too inquisitive, and he was 
accustomed to obeying instructions. Supposing the 
faculty should expel him! To the Big Man such a 
sentence meant the end of all things, something too 
horrible to contemplate. So he said, “Oh, Butcher, is 
it serious?” 

“Rather, youngster; rather, I should say.” 

“What will the baseball team do?” said the Big 
Man, overwhelmed. 


9 


THE BOY SCOUTS BOOK OF STORIES 


“That’s what’s worrying me,” replied the crack 
first-baseman, gloomily. He rose and went to the 
window, where he stood beating a tattoo. 

“You don’t suppose Crazy Opdyke could cover the 
bag, do you ?” said the Big Man. 

“Not in a lifetime.” 

“How about Stubby?” 

“Too short.” 

“They might do something with the Waladoo.” 

“Not for first; he can’t stop anything below his 
knees.” 

“Then I don’t see how we’re going to beat Andover, 
Butcher.” 

“It does look bad.” 

“Do you think the faculty will — will ” 

“Fire me? Pretty certain, youngster.” 

“Oh, Butcher!” 

“Trouble is, they’ve got the goods on me — dead to 
rights.” 

“But does the Doctor know how it’ll break up the 
nine?” 

Butcher laughed loudly. 

“He doesn’t appreciate that, youngster.” 

“No,” said the Big Man, reflectively. “They 
never do, do they ?” 

The luncheon bell rang, and they hurried down. 
The Big Man was overwhelmed by the discovery. If 
Butcher didn’t cover first, how could they ever beat 
Andover and the Princeton freshmen? Even Hill 


io 


THE GREAT BIG MAN 


School and Pennington might trounce them. He fell 
into a brown melancholy, until suddenly he caught 
the sympathetic glance of Mrs. Rogers on him, and 
for fear that she would think it was due to his own 
weakness, he began to chat volubly. 

He had always been a little in awe of the Butcher. 
Not that the Butcher had not been friendly; but he 
was so blunt and rough and unbending that he rather 
repelled intimacy. He watched him covertly, admir- 
ing the bravado with which he pretended unconcern. 
It must be awful to be threatened with expulsion and 
actually to be expelled, to have your whole life ruined, 
once and forever. The Big Man’s heart was stirred. 
He said to himself that he had not been sympathetic 
enough, and he resolved to repair the error. So, 
luncheon over, he said with an appearance of care- 
lessness : 

“I say, old man, come on over to the jigger-shop. 
I’ll set ’em up. I’m pretty flush, you know.” 

The Butcher looked down at the funny face and 
saw the kindly motive under the exaggerated bluff- 
ness. Being touched by it, he said gruffly : 

“Well; come on, then, you old billionaire!” 

The Big Man felt a great movement of sympathy 
in him for his big comrade. He would have liked to 
slip his little fist in the great brown hand and say 
something appropriate, only he could think of nothing 
appropriate. Then he remembered that among men 
there should be no letting down, no sentimentality. So 


ii 


THE BOY SCOUTS BOOK OF STORIES 


he lounged along, squinting up at the Butcher and try 
ing to copy his rolling gait. 

At the jigger-shop, A1 lifted his eyebrows in well- 
informed disapproval, saying curtly: 

“What are you doing here, you Butcher, you?” 

“Building up my constitution,” said Stevens, with 
a frown. “I’m staying because I like it, of course. 
Lawrenceville is just lovely at Easter: spring birds 
and violets, and that sort of thing.” 

“You’re a nice one,” said Al, a baseball enthusi- 
ast. “Why couldn’t you behave until after the An- 
dover game?” 

“Of course; but you needn’t rub it in,” replied the 
Butcher, staring at the floor. “Give me a double 
strawberry, and heave it over.” 

Al, seeing him not insensible, relented. He added 
another dab to the double jigger already delivered, 
and said, shoving over the glass : 

“It’s pretty hard luck on the team, Butcher. 
There’s no one hereabouts can hold down the bag like 
you. Heard anything definite?” 

“No.” 

“What do you think?” 

“I’d hate to say.” 

“Is any one doing anything?” 

“Cap Kiefer is to see the Doctor to-night.” 

“I say, Butcher,” said the Big Man, in sudden fear, 
“you won’t go up to Andover and play against us, 
will you?” 


12 


THE GREAT BIG MAN 


“ Against the school! Well, rather not!” said the 
Butcher, indignantly. Then he added: “No; if they 
fire me, I know what I’ll do.” 

The Big Man wondered if he contemplated suicide ; 
that must be the natural thing to do when one is ex- 
pelled. He felt that he must keep near Butcher, close 
all the day. So he made bold to wander about with 
him, watching him with solicitude. 

They stopped at Lalo’s for a hot dog, and lingered 
at Bill Appleby’s, where the Butcher mournfully tried 
the new mits and swung the bats with critical con- 
sideration. Then feeling hungry, they trudged up to 
Conover’s for pancakes and syrup. Everywhere was 
the same feeling of dismay; what would become of 
the baseball nine? Then it suddenly dawned upon 
the Big Man that no one seemed to be sorry on the 
Butcher’s account. He stopped with a pancake poised 
on his fork, looked about to make sure no one could 
hear him, and blurted out : 

“I say, Butcher, it’s not only on account of first base, 
you know; I’m darn sorry for you , honest!” 

“Why, you profane little cuss,” said the Butcher, 
frowning, “who told you to swear?” 

“Don’t make fun of me, Butcher,” said the Great 
Big Man, feeling very little; “I meant it.” 

“Conover,” said the Butcher, loudly, “more pan- 
cakes, and brown ’em!” 

He, too, had been struck by the fact that in the gen- 
eral mourning there had been scant attention paid to 
13 


THE BOY SCOUTS BOOK OF STORIES 

his personal fortunes. He had prided himself on the 
fact that he was not susceptible to “feelings,” that 
he neither gave nor asked for sympathy. He was 
older than his associates, but years had never recon- 
ciled him to Latin or Greek or, for that matter, to 
mathematics in simple or aggravated form. He had 
been the bully of his village out in northern Iowa, 
and when a stranger came, he trounced him first, and 
cemented the friendship afterward. He liked hard 
knocks, give and take. He liked the school because 
there was the long football season in the autumn, with 
the joy of battling, with every sinew of the body 
alert and the humming of cheers indistinctly heard, as 
he rammed through the yielding line. Then the spring 
meant long hours of romping over the smooth dia- 
mond, cutting down impossible hits, guarding first 
base like a bull-dog, pulling down the high ones, 
smothering the wild throws that came ripping along 
the ground, threatening to jump up against his eyes, 
throws that other fellows dodged. He was in the 
company of equals, of good fighters, like Charley De 
Soto, Hickey, Flash Condit, and Turkey, fellows it 
was a joy to fight beside. Also, it was good to feel 
that four hundred-odd wearers of the red and black 
put their trust in him, and that trust became very 
sacred to him. He played hard — very hard, but 
cleanly, because combat was the joy of life to 
him. He broke other rules, not as a lark, but out of 
the same fierce desire for battle, to seek out danger 
14 


THE GREAT BIG MAN 


wherever he could find it. He had been caught fair 
and square, and he knew that for that particular of- 
fense there was only one punishment. Yet he hoped 
against hope, suddenly realizing what it would cost 
him to give up the great school where, however, he 
had never sought friendships or anything beyond the 
admiration of his mates. 

The sympathy of the Big Man startled him, then 
made him uncomfortable. He had no intention of 
crying out, and he did not like or understand the 
new emotion that rose in him as he wondered when his 
sentence would come. 

“Well, youngster/' he said, gruffly, “had enough? 
Have another round?" 

“I've had enough," said the Big Man, heaving a 
sigh. “Let me treat, Butcher." 

“Not to-day, youngster." 

“Butcher, I — I'd like to. I'm awfully flush." 

“Not to-day." 

“Let's match for it." 

“What!" said the Butcher, fiercely. “Don’t let me 
hear any more of that talk. You’ve got to grow up 
first." 

The Big Man, thus rebuked, acquiesced meekly. 
The two strolled back to the campus in silence. 

“Suppose we have a catch," said the Big Man, ten- 
tatively. 

“All right," said the Butcher, smiling. 

Intrenched behind a gigantic mit, the Big Man 

IS 


THE BOY SCOUTS BOOK OF STORIES 


strove valorously to hold the difficult balls. After a 
long period of this mitigated pleasure they sat down 
to rest. Then Cap Kiefer’s stocky figure appeared 
around the Dickinson, and the Butcher went off for 
a long, solemn consultation. 

The Big Man, thus relieved of responsibility, felt 
terribly alone. He went to his room and took down 
volume two of “The Count of Monte Cristo,” and 
stretched out on the window-seat. Somehow the stu- 
pendous adventures failed to enthrall him. It was 
still throughout the house. He caught himself lis- 
tening for the patter of Hickey’s shoes above, danc- 
ing a breakdown, or the rumble of Egghead’s laugh 
down the hall, or a voice calling, “Who can lend me 
a pair of suspenders?” 

And the window was empty. It seemed so strange 
to look up from the printed page and find no one in 
the Woodhull opposite, shaving painfully at the win- 
dow, or lolling like himself over a novel, all the time 
keeping an eye on the life below. He could not jeer 
at Two Inches Brown and Crazy Opdyke practicing 
curves, nor assure them that the Dickinson nine would 
just fatten on those easy ones. No one halloed from 
house to house, no voice below drawled out : 

“Oh, you Great Big Man! Stick your head out of 
the window!” 

There was no one to call across for the time o’ day, 
or for just a nickel to buy stamps, or for the loan of 
a baseball glove, or a sweater, or a collar button, scis- 
16 


THE GREAT BIG MAN 


sors, button-hook, or fifty and one articles that are 
never bought but borrowed. 

The Great Big Man let “The Count of Monte 
Cristo” tumble unheeded on the floor, seized a tennis 
ball, and went across the campus to the esplanade of 
the Upper House, where for half an hour he bounced 
the ball against the rim of the ledge, a privilege that 
only a fourth former may enjoy. Tiring of this, he 
wandered down to the pond, where he skimmed in- 
numerable flat stones until he had exhausted the at- 
tractions of this limited amusement. 

“I — I’m getting homesick,” he admitted finally. “I 
wish I had a dog — something living — around.” 

At supper-time he saw the Butcher again, and for- 
got his own loneliness in the concern he felt for his 
big friend. He remembered that the Butcher had said 
that if he were expelled he knew what he would do. 
What had he meant by that? Something terrible. 
He glanced up at the Butcher, and, being very appre- 
hensive, made bold to ask : 

“Butcher, I say, what does Cap think ?” 

“He hasn’t seen the Doctor yet,” said the Butcher. 
“He’ll see him to-night. I guess I’ll go over my- 
self, just to leave a calling-card accordin’ to ^-iquette !” 

The Big Man kept his own counsel, but when the 
Butcher, after dinner, disappeared through the awful 
portal of Foundation House, he sat down in the dark 
under a distant tree to watch. In a short five minutes 
the Butcher reappeared, stood a moment undecided on 
17 


THE BOY SCOUTS BOOK OF STORIES 


the steps, stooped, picked up a handful of gravel, flung 
it into the air with a laugh, and started along the 
circle. 

“Butcher!” 

“Hello, who’s that!” 

“It’s me, Butcher,” said the Big Man, slipping his 
hand into the other’s; “I — I wanted to know.” 

“You aren’t going to get sentimental, are you, 
youngster?” said Stevens, disapprovingly. 

“Please, Butcher,” said the Great Big Man, plead- 
ingly, “don’t be cross with me! Is there any hope?” 

“The Doctor won’t see me, young one,” said the 
Butcher, “but the atmosphere was not encouraging.” 

“I’m sorry.” 

“Honest?” 

“Honest.” 

They went hand in hand over to the chapel, where 
they chose the back steps and settled down with the 
great walls at their back and plenty of gravel at their 
feet to fling aimlessly into the dusky night. 

“Butcher?” 

“Well, Big Man!” 

“What will you do if — if they fire you?” 

“Oh, lots of things. I’ll go hunting for gold some- 
where, or strike out for South America or Africa.” 

“Oh!” The Big Man was immensely relieved; but 
he added incredulously, “Then you’ll give up football 
and baseball?” 

“Looks that way.” 

18 


THE GREAT BIG MAN 


“You won’t mind?” 

“Yes,” said the Butcher, suddenly, “I will mind. 
I’ll hate to leave the old school. I'd like to have one 
chance more.” 

“Why don’t you tell the Doctor that ?” 

“Never! I don’t cry out when I’m caught, young- 
ster. I take my punishment.” 

“Yes,” said the Big Man, reflecting. “That’s right, 
I suppose; but, then, there’s the team to think of, you 
know.” 

They sat for a long time in silence, broken sud- 
denly by the Butcher’s voice, not so gruff as usual. 

“Say, Big Man — feeling sort of homesick?” 

No answer. 

“Just a bit?” 

Still no answer. The Butcher looked down, and 
saw the Big Man struggling desperately to hold in the 
sobs. 

“Here, none of that, youngster!” he exclaimed in 
alarm. “Brace up, old man!” 

“I — I’m all right,” said the Great Big Man with 
difficulty. “It’s nothing.” 

The Butcher patted him on the shoulder, and then 
drew his arm around the little body. The Big Man 
put his head down and blubbered, just as though he 
had been a little fellow, while his companion sat per- 
plexed, wondering what to do or say in the strange 
situation. 

“So he’s a little homesick, is he?” he said lamely. 
19 


THE BOY SCOUTS BOOK OF STORIES 


“N-o-o,” said the Great Big Man, “not just that; 
it’s — it’s all the fellows I miss/' 

The Butcher was silent. He, too, began to under- 
stand that feeling; only he, in his battling pride, re- 
sisted fiercely the weakness. 

“You’ve got an uncle somewhere, haven’t you, 
youngster?” he said gently. “Doesn’t he look after 
you in vacation-time?” 

“I don’t miss him” replied the Big Man, shaking 
his head. Then he pulled himself together and said 
apologetically: “It’s just being left behind that makes 
me such a damned cry-baby.” 

“Youngster,” said the Butcher, sternly, “your lan- 
guage is atrocious. Such words do not sound well in 
the mouth of a suckling of your size.” 

“I didn’t mean to,” said the Big Man, blushing. 

“You must leave something to grow up for, young 
man,” said the Butcher, profoundly. “Now tell me 
about that uncle of yours. I don’t fancy his silhou- 
ette.” 

The Great Big Man, thus encouraged, poured out 
his lonely starved little heart, while the Butcher lis- 
tened sympathetically, feeling a certain comfort in 
sitting with his arm around a little fellow-being. Not 
that he was sensible of giving much comfort; his com- 
ments, he felt, were certainly inadequate; nor did he 
measure in any way up to the situation. 

“Now it’s better, eh, Big Man?” he said at last 


20 


THE GREAT BIG MAN 


when the little fellow had stopped. “Does you sort 
of good to talk things out.” 

“Oh, yes; thank you, Butcher.” 

“All right, then, youngster.” 

“All right. I say, you — you don’t ever feel that 
way, do you — homesick, I mean?” 

“Not much.” 

“You’ve got a home, haven’t you?” 

“Quite too much, young one. If they fire me, I’ll 
keep away from there. Strike out for myself.” 

“Of course, then, it’s different.” 

“Young one,” said the Butcher, suddenly, “that’s 
not quite honest. If I have to clear out of here, it 
will cut me up con-siderable.” 

“Honest?” 

“A fact. I didn’t know it before; but it will cut 
me up to strike out and leave all this behind. I want 
another chance; and do you know why?” 

“Why?” 

“I’d like to make friends. Oh, I haven’t got any 
real friends, youngster; you needn’t shake your head. 
It’s my fault. I know it. You’re the first mortal 
soul who cared what became of me. All the rest are 
thinking of the team.” 

“Now, Butcher ” 

“Don’t think I’m crying out!” said the Butcher, in 
instant alarm. “It’s all been up to me. Truth is, I’ve 
been too darned proud. But I’d like to get another 
whack at it.” 


21 


THE BOY SCOUTS BOOK OF STORIES 


“Perhaps you will, Butcher.” 

“No, no, there’s no reason why I should.” The 
Butcher sat solemnly a moment, flinging pebbles down 
into the dark tennis courts. Suddenly he said : “Look 
here, Big Man, I’m going to give you some good ad- 
vice.” 

“All right, Butcher.” 

“And I want you to tuck it away in your thinker 
— savez? You’re a nice kid now, a good sort, but 
you’ve got a lot of chances for being spoiled. Don’t 
get fresh. Don’t get a swelled head just because a 
lot of the older fellows let you play around. There’s 
nothing so hateful in the sight of God or man as a 
fresh kid.” 

“You don’t think ” began the Big Man in dis- 

may. 

“No; you’re all right now. You’re quiet, and don’t 
tag around, and you’re a good sort, darned if you 
aren’t, and that’s why I don’t want to see you spoiled. 
Now a straight question : Do you smoke?” 

“Why, that is — well, Butcher, I did try once a puff 
on Snookers’ cigarette.” 

“You ought to be spanked!” said the Butcher, an- 
grily. “And when I get hold of Snookers, I’ll tan 
him. The idea of his letting you ! Don’t you monkey 
around tobacco yet a while. First of all, it’s fresh, and 
second, you’ve got to grow. You want to make a team, 
don’t you, while you’re here?” 


22 


THE GREAT BIG MAN 


“O-o-h!” said the Great Big Man with a long 
sigh. 

“Then just stick to growing. ’Cause you’ve got 
work cut out for you there. Now I’m not preachin’ ; 
I’m saying that you want to fill out and grow up and 
do something. Harkee.” 

“All right.” 

“Cut out Snookers and that gang. Pick out the 
fellows that count, as you go along, and just remem- 
ber this, if you forget the rest: if you want to put 
ducks in Tabby’s bed or nail down his desk, do it 
because you want to do it, not because some other 
fellow wants you to do it. D’ye hear?” 

“Yes, Butcher.” 

“Remember that, youngster; if I’d stuck to it, I’d 
kept out of a peck of trouble.” He reflected a moment 
and added : “Then I’d study a little. It’s not a bad 
thing, I guess, in the long run, and it gets the masters 
on your side. And now jump up, and we’ll trot 
home.” 

The following night the Big Man, again under his 
tree, waited for the result of the conference that was 
going on inside Foundation House between the Doc- 
tor and the Butcher and Cap Kiefer. It was long, 
very long. The minutes went slowly, and it was very 
dark there, with hardly a light showing in the circle 
of houses that ordinarily seemed like a procession of 
lighted ferry-boats. After an interminable hour, the 
Butcher and Cap came out. He needed no word to tell 
23 


THE BOY SCOUTS BOOK OF STORIES 


what their attitudes showed only too plainly: the 
Butcher was expelled ! 

The Big Man waited until the two had passed into 
the night, and then, with a sudden resolve, went 
bravely to the doorbell and rang. Before he quite ap- 
preciated the audacity of his act, he found himself in 
the sanctum facing a much-perplexed head master. 

“Doctor, I — I ” The Big Man stopped, over- 

whelmed by the awful majesty of the Doctor, on 
whose face still sat the grimness of the past confer- 
ence. 

“Well, Joshua, what’s the matter ?” said the head 
master, relaxing a bit before one of his favorites. 

“Please, sir, I’m a little — a little embarrassed, I’m 
afraid,” said the Great Big Man, desperately. 

“Am I so terrible as all that?” said the Doctor, smil- 
ing. 

“Yes, sir — you are,” the Big Man replied frankly. 
Then he said, plunging in, “Doctor, is the Butcher — 
is Stevens — are you going to — expel him?” 

“That is my painful duty, Joshua,” said the Doc- 
tor, frowning. 

“Oh, Doctor,” said the Big Man all in a breath, 
“you don’t know — you’re making a mistake.” 

“I am? Why, Joshua?” 

“Because — you don’t know. Because the Butcher 
won’t tell you, he’s too proud, sir; because he doesn’t 
want to cry out, sir.” 


24 


THE GREAT BIG MAN 


“What do you mean exactly?” said the Doctor in 
surprise. “Does Stevens know you’re here?” 

“Oh, Heavens, no, sir!” said the Big Man in hor- 
ror. “And you must never tell him, sir; that would 
be too terrible.” 

“Joshua,” said the Doctor, impressively, “I am ex- 
pelling Stevens because he is just the influence I don’t 
want boys of your age to come under.” 

“Oh, yes, sir,” said the Big Man, “I know you think 
that, sir; but really, Doctor, that’s where you are 
wrong; really you are, sir.” 

The Doctor saw there was something under the 
surface, and he encouraged the little fellow to talk. 
The Big Man, forgetting all fear in the seriousness of 
the situation, told the listening head master all the 
Butcher’s conversation with him on the chapel steps 
the night before — told it simply and eloquently, with 
an ardor that bespoke absolute faith. Then suddenly 
he stopped. 

“That’s all, sir,” he said, frightened. 

The Doctor rose and walked back and forth, 
troubled and perplexed. There was no doubting the 
sincerity of the recital: it was a side of Stevens he 
had not guessed. Finally he turned and rested his 
hand on the Big Man’s shoulders. 

“Thank you,” he said; “it does put another light 
on the question. I’ll think it over.” 

When, ten days later, the school came trickling 
home along the road from vacation, they saw, against 
25 


THE BOY SCOUTS BOOK OF STORIES 


all hope, the Butcher holding down first base, frolick- 
ing over the diamond in the old familiar way, and a 
great shout of joy and relief went up. But how it 
had happened no one ever knew, least of all Cap and 
the Butcher, who had gone from Foundation House 
that night in settled despair. 

To add to Butcher's mystification, the Doctor, in 
announcing his reprieve, had added : 

“I’ve decided to make a change, Stevens. I’m go- 
ing to put Tibbetts in to room with you. I place him 
in your charge. I’m going to try a little responsibil- 
ity on you.” 



II. — A Twilight Adventure* 

By Melville Davisson Post 

A good many boys are fortunate in their “aunts” and 
“ uncles ” Such a one was Martin with his “Uncle Abner” 
The experiences they had together down in the mountains of 
Virginia were very remarkable, and often most desperate, 
as in the case of the following story, but one of the many 
set down by Martin, grown to be a man, in the book from 
which this was taken . But, it's enough to make you boys 
wish you, too, lived with an “Uncle Abner” in a similar 
early Virginia settlement, with the wild forests so near at 
hand . — The Editor. 

I T was a strange scene that we approached. Before 
a crossroad leading into a grove of beech trees, a 
man sat on his horse with a rifle across his saddle. 
He did not speak until we were before him in the road, 
and then his words were sinister. 

“Ride on \” he said. 

But my Uncle Abner did not ride on. He pulled up 

his big chestnut and looked calmly at the man. 

* Reprinted from “Uncle Abner.” Copyright, 1918, by D. 
Appleton and Company. 

27 


THE BOY SCOUTS BOOK OF STORIES 

“You speak like one having authority/’ he said. 

k The man answered with an oath. 

“Ride on, or you’ll get into trouble !” 

Abner’s eyes traveled over the speaker with a de- 
liberate scrutiny; then he answered: “Are the roads 
of Virginia held by arms ?” 

“This one is,” replied the man. 

“I think not,” replied my Uncle Abner, and, touch- 
ing his horse with his heel, he turned into the cross- 
road. 

The man seized his weapon, and I heard the hammer 
click under his thumb. Abner must have heard it, 
too, but he did not turn his broad back. He only 
called to me in his usual matter-of-fact voice: 

“Go on, Martin; I will overtake you.” 

The man brought his gun up to his middle, but he 
did not shoot. He was like all those who under- 
take to command obedience without having first de- 
termined precisely what they will do if their orders are 
disregarded. He was prepared to threaten with 
desperate words, but not to support that threat with a 
desperate act, and he hung there uncertain, cursing 
under his breath. 

I would have gone on as my uncle had told me to 
do, but now the man came to a decision. 

“No!” he said; “if he goes in, you go in, too!” 

And he seized my bridle and turned my horse into 
the crossroad; then he followed. 

There is a long twilight in these hills. The sun 
28 


A TWILIGHT ADVENTURE 


departs, but the day remains. A sort of weird, dim, 
elfin day, that dawns at sunset, and envelops and 
possesses the world. The land is full of light, but it 
is the light of no heavenly sun. It is a light equal 
everywhere, as though the earth strove to illumine 
itself, and succeeded with that labor. 

The stars are not yet out. Now and then a pale 
moon rides in the sky, but it has no power, and the 
light is not from it. The wind is usually gone; the 
air is soft, and the fragrance of the fields fills it like 
a perfume. The noises of the day and of the crea- 
tures that go about by day cease, and the noises of 
the night and of the creatures that haunt the night 
begin. The bat swoops and circles in the maddest 
action, but without a sound. The eye sees him, but 
the ear hears nothing. The whippoorwill begins his 
plaintive cry, and one hears, but does not see. 

It is a world that we do not understand, for we 
are creatures of the sun, and we are fearful lest we 
come upon things at work here, of which we have 
no experience, and that may be able to justify them- 
selves against our reason. And so a man falls into 
silence when he travels in this twilight, and he looks 
and listens with his senses out on guard. 

It was an old wagon-road that we entered, with 
the grass growing between the ruts. The horses 
traveled without a sound until we began to enter a 
grove of ancient beech trees; then the dead leaves 
cracked and rustled. Abner did not look behind him, 
29 


THE BOY SCOUTS BOOK OF STORIES 


and so he did not know that I came. He knew that 
some one followed, but he doubtless took it for the 
sentinel in the road. And I did not speak. 

The man with the cocked gun rode grimly behind 
me. I did not know whither we went or to what 
end. We might be shot down from behind a tree 
or murdered in our saddles. It was not a land where 
men took desperate measures upon a triviality. And 
I knew that Abner rode into something that little 
men, lacking courage, would gladly have stayed out of. 

Presently my ear caught a sound, or, rather, a 
confused mingling of sounds, as of men digging in 
the earth. It was faint, and some distance beyond 
us in the heart of the beech woods, but as we traveled 
the sound increased and I could distinguish the strokes 
of the mattock, and the thrust of the shovel and the 
clatter of the earth on the dry leaves. 

These sounds seemed at first to be before us, and 
then, a little later, off on our right-hand. And finally, 
through the gray boles of the beech trees in the low- 
land, I saw two men at work digging a pit. They had 
just begun their work, for there was little earth thrown 
out. But there was a great heap of leaves that they 
had cleared away, and heavy cakes of the baked crust 
that the mattocks had pried up. The length of the 
pit lay at right angles to the road, and the men were 
working with their backs towards us. They were in 
their shirts and trousers, and the heavy mottled shad- 
ows thrown by the beech limbs hovered on their backs 
30 


A TWILIGHT ADVENTURE 


and shoulders like a flock of night birds. The earth 
was baked and hard ; the mattock rang on it, and among 
the noises of their work they did not hear us. 

I saw Abner look off at this strange labor, his head 
half turned, but he did not stop and we went on. 
The old wagon-road made a turn into the low ground. 
I heard the sound of horses, and a moment later we 
came upon a dozen men. 

I shall not easily forget that scene. The beech 
trees had been deadened by some settler who had 
chppped a ring around them, and they stood gaunt 
with a few tattered leaves, letting the weird twilight 
in. Some of the men stood about, others sat on the 
fallen trees, and others in their saddles. But upon 
every man of that grim company there was the air 
and aspect of one who waits for something to be 
finished. 

An old man with a heavy iron-gray beard smoked 
a pipe, puffing out great mouthfuls of smoke with 
a sort of deliberate energy; another whittled a stick, 
cutting a bull with horns, and shaping his work with 
the nicest care; and still another traced letters on the 
pommel of his saddle with his thumb-nail. 

A little to one side a great pronged beech thrust 
out a gray arm, and under it two men sat on their 
horses, their elbows strapped to their bodies and 
their mouths gagged with a saddle-cloth. And be- 
hind them a man in his saddle was working with a 
colt halter, unraveling the twine that bound the head- 
31 


THE BOY SCOUTS BOOK OF STORIES 

piece and seeking thereby to get a greater length of 
rope. 

This was the scene when I caught it first. But a 
moment later, when my uncle rode into it, the thing 
burst into furious life. Men sprang up, caught his 
horse by the bit and covered him with weapons. 
Some one called for the sentinel who rode behind 
me, and he galloped up. For a moment there was 
confusion. Then the big man who had smoked with 
such deliberation called out my uncle’s name, others 
repeated it, and the panic was gone. But a ring of 
stern, determined faces were around him and before 
his horse, and with the passing of the flash of action 
there passed no whit of the grim purpose upon which 
these men were set. 

My uncle looked about him. 

“Lemuel Arnold,” he said; “Nicholas Vance, Hiram 
Ward, you here!” 

As my uncle named these men I knew them. They 
were cattle grazers. Ward was the big man with 
the pipe. The men with them were their renters and 
drovers. 

Their lands lay nearest to the mountains. The 
geographical position made for feudal customs and 
a certain independence of action. They were on the 
border, they were accustomed to say, and had to take 
care of themselves. And it ought to be written that 
they did take care of themselves with courage and 
32 



u 


SOME OF THE MEN STOOD ABOUT. BEHIND THEM TWO MEN SAT ON THEIR 
HORSES, THEIR ELBOWS STRAPPED TO THEIR BODIES” 



A TWILIGHT ADVENTURE 

decision, and on occasion they also took care of Vir- 
ginia. 

Their fathers had pushed the frontier of the do- 
minion northward and westward and had held the 
land. They had fought the savage single-handed and 
desperately, by his own methods and with his own 
weapons. Ruthless and merciless, eye for eye and 
tooth for tooth, they returned what they were given. 

They did not send to Virginia for militia when 
the savage came; they fought him at their doors, 
and followed him through the forest, and took their 
toll of death. They were hardier than he was, and 
their hands were heavier and bloodier, until the old 
men in the tribes of the Ohio Valley forbade these 
raids because they cost too much, and turned the 
war parties south into Kentucky. 

Certain historians have written severely of these 
men and their ruthless methods, and prattled of hu- 
mane warfare; but they wrote nursing their soft 
spines in the security of a civilization which these 
men’s hands had builded, and their words are hollow. 

“Abner,” said Ward, “let me speak plainly. We 
have got an account to settle with a couple of cattle 
thieves and we are not going to be interfered with. 
Cattle stealing and murder have got to stop in these 
hills. We’ve had enough of it.” 

“Well,” replied my uncle, “I am the last man in 
Virginia to interfere with that. We have all had 
33 


THE BOY SCOUTS BOOK OF STORIES 

enough of it, and we are all determined that it must 
cease. But how do you propose to end it?” 

“With a rope,” said Ward. 

“It is a good way,” replied Abner, “when it is 
done the right way.” 

“What do you mean by the right way?” said Ward. 

“I mean,” answered my uncle, “that we have all 
agreed to a way and we ought to stick to our agree- 
ment. Now, I want to help you to put down cattle 
stealing and murder, but I want also to keep my 
word.” 

“And how have you given your word?” 

“In the same way that you have given yours,” 
said Abner, “and as every man here has given his. 
Our fathers found out that they could not manage 
the assassin and the thief when every man under- 
took to act for himself, so they got together and 
agreed upon a certain way to do these things. Now, 
we have indorsed what they agreed to, and promised 
to obey it, and I for one would like to keep my 
promise.” 

. The big man’s face was puzzled. Now it cleared. 

“You mean the law?” 

“Call it what you like,” replied Abner ; “it is merely 
the agreement of everybody to do certain things in a 
certain way.” 

The man made a decisive gesture with a jerk of 
his head. 


34 


A TWILIGHT ADVENTURE 

“Well,” he said, “we're going to do this thing our 
own way.” 

My uncle's face became thoughtful. 

“Then,” he said, “you will injure some innocent 
people.” 

“You mean these two blacklegs?” 

’And Ward indicated the prisoners with a gesture 
of his thumb. 

My uncle lifted his face and looked at the two 
men some distance away beneath the great beech, 
as though he had but now observed them. 

“I was not thinking of them,” he answered. “I 
was thinking that if men like you and Lemuel Ar- 
nold and Nicholas Vance violate the law, lesser men 
will follow your example, and as you justify your 
act for security, they will justify theirs for revenge 
and plunder. And so the law will go to pieces and 
a lot of weak and innocent people who depend upon 
it for security will be left unprotected.” 

These were words that I have remembered, be- 
cause they put the danger of lynch law in a light I 
had not thought of. But I saw that they would 
not move these determined men. Their blood was 
up and they received them coldly. 

“Abner,” said Ward, “we are not going to argue 
this thing with you. There are times when men 
have to take the law into their own hands. We live 
here at the foot of the mountain. Our cattle are 
35 


THE BOY SCOUTS BOOK OF STORIES 


stolen and run across the border into Maryland. We 
are tired of it and we intend to stop it 

“Our lives and our property are menaced by a 
set of reckless desperate devils that we have deter- 
mined to hunt down and hang to the first tree in 
sight. We did not send for you. You pushed your 
way in here; and now, if you are afraid of breaking 
the law, you can ride on, because we are going to 
break it — if to hang a pair of murderous devils is 
to break it.” 

I was astonished at my uncle’s decision. 

“Well,” he said, “if the law must be broken, I will 
stay and help you break it!” 

“Very well,” replied Ward; “but don’t get a wrong 
notion in your head, Abner. If you choose to stay, 
you put yourself on a footing with everybody else.” 

“And that is precisely what I want to do,” replied 
Abner, “but as matters stand now, every man here 
has an advantage over me.” 

“What advantage, Abner?” said Ward. 

“The advantage,” answered my uncle, “that he 
has heard all the evidence against your prisoners and 
is convinced that they are guilty.” 

“If that is all the advantage, Abner,” replied Ward, 
“you shall not be denied it. There has been so much 
cattle stealing here of late that our people living on 
the border finally got together and determined to 
stop every drove going up into the mountains that 
wasn’t accompanied by somebody that we knew was 

36 


A TWILIGHT ADVENTURE 


all right. This afternoon one of my men reported a 
little bunch of about a hundred steers on the road, 
and I stopped it. These two men were driving the 
cattle. I inquired if the cattle belonged to them 
and they replied that they were not the owners, but 
that they had been hired to take the drove over into 
Maryland. I did not know the men, and as they met 
my inquiries with oaths and imprecations, I was sus- 
picious of them. I demanded the name of the owner 
who had hired them to drive the cattle. They said 
it was none of my damned business and went on. I 
raised the county. We overtook them, turned their 
cattle into a field, and brought them back until we 
could find out who the drove belonged to. On the 
road we met Bowers. ,, 

He turned and indicated the man who was work- 
ing with the rope halter. 

I knew the man. He was a cattle shipper, some- 
what involved in debt, but who managed to buy and 
sell and somehow keep his head above water. 

“He told us the truth. Yesterday evening he had 
gone over on the Stone-Coal to look at Daniel Coop- 
man’s cattle. He had heard that some grazer from 
your county, Abner, was on the way up to buy the 
cattle for stockers. He wanted to get in ahead of 
your man, so he left home that evening and got to 
Coopman’s place about sundown. He took a short 
cut on foot over the hill, and when he came out he 
saw a man on the opposite ridge where the road 
37 


THE BOY SCOUTS BOOK OF STORIES 


runs, ride away. The man seemed to have been 
sitting on his horse looking down into the little val- 
ley where Coopman’s house stands. Bowers went 
down to the house, but Coopman was not there. The 
door was open, and Bowers says the house looked 
as though Coopman had just gone out of it and 
might come back any moment. There was no one 
about, because Coopman’ s wife had gone on a visit to 
her daughter, over the mountains, and the old man 
was alone. 

“Bowers thought Coopman was out showing the 
cattle to the man whom he had just seen ride off, 
so he went out to the pasture field to look for him. 
He could not find him and he could not find the 
cattle. He came back to the house to wait until Coop- 
man should come in. He sat down on the porch. As 
he sat there he noticed that the porch had been 
scrubbed and was still wet. He looked at it and saw 
that it had been scrubbed only at one place before 
the door. This seemed to him a little peculiar, and 
he wondered why Coopman had scrubbed his porch 
only in one place. He got up and as he went toward 
the door he saw that the jamb of the door was splin- 
tered at a point about half-way up. He examined this 
splintered place and presently discovered that it was a 
bullet hole. 

“This alarmed him, and he went out into the yard. 
There he saw a wagon track leading away from the 
house toward the road. In the weeds he found Coop- 

38 


A TWILIGHT ADVENTURE 


man’s watch. He picked it up and put it into his 
pocket. It was a big silver watch, with Coopman’s 
name on it, and attached to it was a buckskin string. 
He followed the track to the gate, where it entered 
the road. He discovered then that the cattle had also 
passed through this gate. It was now night. Bowers 
went back, got Coopman’s saddle horse out of the 
stable, rode him home, and followed the track of the 
cattle this morning, but he saw no trace of the drove 
until we met him.” 

“What did Shifflet and Twiggs say to this story?” 
inquired Abner. 

“They did not hear it,” answered Ward; “Bowers 
did not talk before them. He rode aside with us 
w r hen we met him.” 

“Did Shifflet and Twiggs know Bowers?” said 
Abner. 

“I don’t know,” replied Ward; “their talk was so 
foul when we stopped the drove that we had to tie 
their mouths up.” 

“Is that all ?” said Abner. 

Ward swore a great oath. 

“No!” he said. “Do you think we would hang 
men on that? From what Bowers told us, we thought 
Shifflet and Twiggs had killed Daniel Coopman and 
driven off his cattle; but we wanted to be certain of 
it, so we set out to discover what they had done with 
Coopman’s body after they had killed him and what 
they had done with the wagon. We followed the trail 
39 


THE BOY SCOUTS BOOK OF STORIES 


of the drove down to the Valley River. No wagon 
had crossed, but on the other side we found that a 
wagon and a drove of cattle had turned out of the road 
and gone along the basin of the river for about a mile 
through the woods. And there in a bend of the river 
we found where these devils had camped. 

‘There had been a great fire of logs very near to 
the river, but none of the ashes of this fire remained. 
From a circular space some twelve feet in diameter 
the ashes had all been shoveled off, the marks of the 
shovel being distinct. In the center of the place 
where this fire had burned the ground had been scraped 
clean, but near the edges there were some traces of 
cinders and the ground was blackened. In the river 
at this point, just opposite the remains of the fire, 
was a natural washout or hole. We made a raft of 
logs, cut a pole with a fork on the end and dragged 
the river. We found most of the wagon iron, all 
showing the effect of fire. Then we fastened a tin 
bucket to a pole and fished the washout. We brought 
up cinders, buttons, buckles and pieces of bone. ,, 

Ward paused. 

“That settled it, and we came back here to swing 
the devils up.” 

My uncle had listened very carefully, and now he 
spoke. 

“What did the man pay Twiggs and Shifflet?” 
said my uncle. “Did they tell you that when you 
stopped the drove?” 


40 


A TWILIGHT ADVENTURE 

“Now that,” answered Ward, “was another piece 
of damning evidence. When we searched the men 
we found a pocketbook on Shifflet with a hundred 
and fifteen dollars and some odd cents. It was Daniel 
Coopman’s pocketbook, because there was an old tax 
receipt in it that had slipped down between the leather 
and the lining. 

“We asked Shifflet where he got it, and he said that 
the fifteen dollars and the change was his own money 
and that the hundred had been paid to him by the 
man who had hired them to drive the cattle. He ex- 
plained his possession of the pocketbook by saying 
that this man had the money in it, and when he went 
to pay them he said that they might just as well take 
it, too.” 

“Who was this man ?” said Abner. 

“They will not tell who he was.” 

“Why not?” 

“Now, Abner,” cried Ward, “why not, indeed! 
Because there never was any such man. The story 
is a lie out of the whole cloth. The proof is all dead 
against them.” 

“Well,” replied my uncle, “what circumstantial 
evidence proves, depends a good deal on how you 
get started. It is a somewhat dangerous road to 
the truth, because all the sign-boards have a curious 
trick of pointing in the direction that you are going. 
Now a man will never realize this unless he turns 
around and starts back, then he will see, to his amaze- 
41 


THE BOY SCOUTS BOOK OF STORIES 


ment, that the signboards have also turned. But as 
long as his face is set one certain way, it is of no use 
to talk to him, he won’t listen to you; and if he sees 
you going the other way, he will call you a fool !” 

“There is only one way in this case,” said Ward. 

“There are always two ways in every case,” replied 
Abner, “that the suspected person is either guilty or 
innocent. You have started upon the theory that 
Shiffiet and Twiggs are guilty. Now, suppose you 
had started the other way, what then?” 

“Well,” said Ward, “what then?” 

“This, then,” continued Abner. “You stop Shiff- 
iet and Twiggs on the road with Daniel Cooprran’s 
cattle, and they tell you that a man has hired them 
to drive this drove into Maryland. You believe that 
and start out to find the man. You find Bowers!” 

Bowers went deadly white. 

“For God’s sake, Abner!” he said. 

But my uncle was merciless and he drove in the 
conclusion. 

“What then?” 

There was no answer, but the faces of the men 
about my uncle turned toward the man whose trem- 
bling hands fingered the rope that he was preparing 
for another. 

“But the things we found, Abner?” said Ward. 

“What do they prove,” continued my uncle, “now 
that the signboards are turned? That somebody 
killed Daniel Coopman and drove off his cattle, 
42 


A TWILIGHT ADVENTURE 


and afterward destroyed the body and the wagon in 
which it was hauled away. . . . But who did that? 
. . . The men who were driving Daniel Coopman’s 
cattle, or the man who was riding Daniel Coopman’s 
horse, and carrying Daniel Coopman’s watch in his 
pocket ?” 

Ward’s face was a study in expression. 

“Ah!” cried Abner. “Remember that the sign- 
boards have turned about. And what do they point 
to if we read them on the way we are going now? 
The man who killed Coopman was afraid to be found 
with the cattle, so he hired Twiggs and Shifflet to 
drive them into Maryland for him and follows on 
another road.” 

“But his story, Abner?” said Ward. 

“And what of it?” replied by uncle. “He is taken 
and he must explain how he comes by the horse that 
he rides, and the watch that he carries, and he must 
find the criminal. Well, he tells you a tale to fit the 
facts that you will find when you go back to look, 
and he gives you Shifflet and Twiggs to hang.” 

I never saw a man in more mortal terror than 
Jacob Bowers. He sat in his saddle like a man be- 
wildered. 

“My God!” he said, and again he repeated it, and 
again. 

And he had cause for that terror on him. My 
uncle was stern and ruthless. The pendulum had 
swung the other way, and the lawless monster that 
43 


THE BOY SCOUTS BOOK OF STORIES 

Bowers had allied was now turning on himself. He 
saw it and his joints were unhinged with fear. 

A voice crashed out of the ring of desperate men, 
uttering the changed opinion. 

“By God !” it cried, “we’ve got the right man now !” 

And one caught the rope out of Bowers’ hand. 

But my Uncle Abner rode in on them. 

“Are you sure about that?” he said. 

“Sure!” they echoed. “You have shown it your- 
self, Abner.” 

“No,” replied my uncle, “I have not shown it. I 
have shown merely whither circumstantial evidence 
leads us when we go hotfoot after a theory. Bowers 
says that there was a man on the hill above Daniel 
Coopman’s house, and this man will know that he 
did not kill Daniel Coopman and that his story is 
the truth.” 

They laughed in my uncle’s face. 

“Do you believe that there was any such person?” 

My uncle seemed to increase in stature, and his 
voice became big and dominant. 

“I do,” he said, “because I am the man!” 

They had got their lesson, and we rode out with 
Shifflet and Twiggs to a legal trial. 


V- 



HI. — Tad Sheldon, Second-Class Scout* 

By John Fleming Wilson 

A good many Scout stories have been published, hundreds 
of them surely, maybe a thousand, or more, in the last nine 
years. But the first Scout story published in the United 
States was <( Tad Sheldon, Second-Class Scout.” It appeared 
first in the <f Saturday Evening Post.” The author has writ- 
ten a good many stories, Scout and otherwise, since then, 
but none better, I think, than this, and I count it good for- 
tune indeed that I am able to include it in this volume of 
short stories for boys . — The Editor. 

T HERE is no har-rm in the story, though it 

speaks ill for us big people with Misther 

to our names,” said Chief Engineer 

Mickey O’Rourke, balancing his coffee cup between his 

two scarred hands. “Ye remimber the lasht toime I 

was on leave — and I wint down to Yaquina Bay with 

Captain Tyler on his tin gas schooner, thinkin’ to 

mesilf it was a holiday — and all the fun I had was 

insthructin’ the gasoline engineer in the mysteries of 

how to expriss one’s sintimints without injurin’ the 

* Reprinted from “Tad Sheldon, Boy Scout,” by special permis- 
sion of The Macmillan Company. Copyright, 1913, by R. Harold 
Paget. 


45 


THE BOY SCOUTS BOOK OF STORIES 


skipper’s feelin’s? Well, I landed in the bay and 
walked about in the woods, which is foine for the 
smell of thim which is like fresh tar; and one after- 
noon I find two legs and small feet stickin’ out of a 
hole under a stump. I pulled on the two feet and the 
legs came out and at the end of thim a bhoy, mad with 
rage and dirt in his eyes. 

“ ‘Ye have spoiled me fun !’ says he, lookin’ at me 
very fierce. 

“ ‘Do yez dig yer fun out of the ground like coal?’ 
I demands. 

“ ‘I’m investigatin’ the habits of squirrels/ says he. 
‘I must find out how a squirrel turns round in his hole. 
Does he turn a summersault or stick his tail between 
his ears and go over backward?’ 

“ ‘He turns inside out, like an ould sock,’ I informs 
him, and he scorns me natural history. On the 
strength of mutual language we get acquainted. He 
is Tad Sheldon, the eldest son of Surfman No. I of 
the life-saving crew. He is fourteen years ould. Me 
bould Tad has troubles of his own, consisting of five 
other youngsters who are his gang. ‘We are pre- 
paring to inter the ranks of the Bhoy Scouts,’ he tells 
me, settin’ be the side of the squirrel-hole. ‘We are 
all tender feet and we can’t get enlisted with the rest 
of the bhoys in the United States because each scout 
must have a dollar in the bank and between the six of 
us we have only one dollar and six bits and that’s in 
me mother’s apron pocket and in no bank at all.’ 

46 


TAD SHELDON, SECOND-CLASS SCOUT 

“ ‘Explain/ says I. 

’Tis this way/ says me young sprig. ‘All the 
bhoys in the country of America have joined the 
scouts, which is an army of felleys that know the 
woods and about animals and how to light a fire, and 
know the law/ 

“ ‘Stop !’ I orders. ‘No one knows the law without 
gold in one hand and a book in the other. If ye knew 
the law ye would have yer dollar/ 

“ ‘ ’Tis the scouts’ law/ says he. ‘It tells ye to 
obey yer superiors and be fair to animals and kind to 
people ye care little for. Ye must know how to take 
care of yourself anywhere and be ready whin the 
country needs ye.’ 

“‘And ye need a dollar?’ I asks. ‘Thin, why not 
work for it and stop pokin’ yer nose down squirrel- 
holes, where there is neither profit nor wages?* 

“ ‘Because I’m to be the patrol-leader and I must 
know more than me men/ he retorts. 

“Now, ye remimber I had in me pocket three pay 
checks, besides the money of Mr. Lof, the second 
engineer, which I had got for him and was carryin’ 
about to send to him by the first friend I saw. So 
I took off me cap and pulled out one of the checks 
and said : ‘Me bould boy, go down to the town and get 
the cash for this. Bring it back to me and I’ll give 
ye a dollar; and thin ye can become a scout.’ 

“The lad looked at me and then at the governmint 
check. He shook his head till the dirt rolled into his 
4 7 


THE BOY SCOUTS BOOK OF STORIES 

ears, for he was still full of the clods he had rubbed 
into himself in the hole. ‘I can’t take a dollar from 
a man in the service/ he says. ‘I must earn it/ 

“ The Governmint’s money is clane/ I rebukes 
him. ‘I’m ould and me legs ends just above me feet, 
so that I walk with difficulty. Tis worth a dollar 
to get the coin without trampinV 

“ T will earn it from somebody not in the service/ 
says me bould boy, with great firmness. 

“ Tm no surfman, thank Hivin !’ I remarks. Tm 
in the establishmint and look down on ye/ 

“ Tf I’d known ye were a lighthouse man I’d have 
taken all ye had at first/ he retorts. ‘But ye have 
made me a fair offer and I forgive ye. My father 
works for his living.’ 

“ ‘Well/ says I seein’ that it was poor fortune to 
be quarrelin’ with a slip of a kid, ‘do yez want the 
dollar or not?’ 

“And at that we got down to fact and he explained 
that this scout business was most important. It ap- 
peared that the other five bhoys depinded on him to 
extricate thim from their difficulties and set them all 
up as scouts, with uniforms and knives and a knowl- 
edge of wild animals and how to build a fire in a 
bucket of watther. We debated the thing back and 
forth till the sun dropped behind the trees and the 
could air came up from the ground and stuck me 
with needles of rheumatism. 

“The lad was a good lad, and he made plain to me 

48 


TAD SHELDON, SECOND-CLASS SCOUT 

why his dollar was har-rd to get. He had thought 
of savin’ the life of a summer visitor, but the law 
read that he must save life anyhow, without lookin’ 
for pay. ‘And we can’t all save lives,’ he mourns; 
‘for some of the kids is too young.’ 

“ ‘But ye must earn money, ye scut,’ I says. ‘Ye’re 
fourteen and whin I was that age I was me mother’s 
support and joy. I made four shillin’s a wake mixin’ 
plaster for a tile-layer.’ 

“ ‘I work,’ he responds dolefully. ‘But it goes to 
me mother to put with the savings in the bank against 
the time me father will be drowned, and leave us 
without support, for ye must know that we life-savers 
get no pensions.” 

“ ‘I niver hear-ed of a life-saver bein’ drowned,’ 
I remarks. ‘But it may be, for I see ye are of an 
exthra-or dinary family and anything may come to 
such. How many are there of yez?’ 

“ ‘There are six of us childher, all gur-rls but me- 
silf,’ says he, with rage in his voice. ‘And Carson — 
he was No. 4 — broke his hip in a wreck last year and 
died of the bruise and left five, which the crew is 
lookin’ after. Young Carson is one of me gang and 
makes a dollar and four bits a week deliverin’ clams to 
the summer folks. Ye see he can’t save a dollar for 
the bank.’ And we got up and discussed the matther 
going down the hill toward the town. Before we 
parted Tad tould me where he lived. 

“ ‘I’d call on yer father and mother,’ says I, ‘if I 

49 


THE BOY SCOUTS BOOK OF STORIES 

cud be sure they would appreciate the honor. ‘Tis a 
comedown for an officer in the lighthouse establish- 
mint to inter the door of a surfman.’ 

“ ‘Me father has a kind heart and is good to the 
ould/ he answers me. ‘We live beyond the station, 
on the bluff/ ” 

“With that we went our ways and I ate an imminse 
meal in the hotel with the dishes all spread out before 
me — and a pretty gur-rl behind me shoulder to point 
out the best of thim. Thin I walked out and started 
for the house of me bould Tad. 

“I found thim all seated in the parlor excipt the 
missus, who was mixin’ bread in the kitchen. I intro- 
duced mesilf, and Sheldon, who had No. i on his 
sleeve, offered me a pipe, which I took. I came down 
to business, houldin’ me cap full of checks and money 
on me lap. ‘Yer bould bhoy wants to be a scout and 
lacks a dollar/ I says. ‘I like his looks, though I dis- 
covered him in a hole under a tree. He won’t take me 
money and scorns me and the establishmint/ 

“ ‘He must earn it/ he answers, scowlin’ over his 
pipe. 

“ ‘But I’ll spind it/ I insists, peerin’ at the bhoy out 
of the tail of me eye. ‘If yer town weren’t dhry I’d 
have given it to the saloon man for the good of the 
family he hasn’t got. So why bilge at a single 
dollar ?’ 

“ ‘ ’Tis the scouts’ law/ puts in me bould Tad. ‘I 
must make it honestly.’ And he settled his head be- 
50 


TAD SHELDON, SECOND-CLASS SCOUT 

tween his hands and gazed reproachfully at the clane 
floor. So I saved me money and sat till eight o’clock 
exchangin’ complimints with Misther Sheldon. Thin 
the bell rang on the hill beyond the station and he 
pulled his cap off the dresser, kissed his wife and the 
five gur-rls and wint out to his watch and a good 
sleep. While he was gone I stood in the doorway and 
Missus Sheldon tould me of the little Carsons and 
how Missus Carson had sworn niver to marry again 
excipt in the life-saving service. ‘She says the Gov- 
ernmint took away her husband and her support/ says 
the good lady, ‘and she’ll touch no money excipt 
Governmint checks, being used to thim and Uncle 
Sam owin’ her the livin’ he took away.’ 

“ ‘With five childher she shud look up and marry 
one of the men in the establishment,’ I informs her. 
‘They are good husbands and make money.’ 

“ ‘Though a widow, she has pride,’ she responds 
sharply; and I left, with young Tad follerin’ at me 
heels till I let him overtake me and whisper: ‘If ye’d 
buy some clams off of young Carson it wud help the 
widow.’ 

“ ‘I am starved for clams,’ I whispers back like a 
base conspirator for the hand of the lovely gur-rl in 
the castle. ‘Show me the house of me bould Carson.’ 
He pointed to a light through the thin woods. 

“They thought I was crazy whin I returned to the 
hotel with a hundred pounds of clams dripping down 
me back. ‘I dug thim with me own hands this night,’ 
51 


THE BOY SCOUTS BOOK OF STORIES 

I tould the man in the office. 'Cook thim all for me 
breakfast/ 

“ ‘Ye’re a miracle of strength and endurance under 
watther/ says he; ‘for ’tis now high tide and the surf 
is heavy/ 

“ ‘I found their tracks in the road and followed thim 
to their lair/ I retorts. ‘Do I get thim for break- 
fast ?’ 

“And in the mor-rin’, whin I was that full of clams 
that I needed a shell instead of a weskit, I walked 
on the beach with the admirin’ crowds of summer tour- 
ists and lovely women. It was fine weather and the 
little ones were barefooted and the old ones bare- 
headed, and the wind was gentle, and the life-savers 
were polishin’ their boat in full view of the wondherin’ 
throng; and I thought of this ould tub out here on 
the ind of a chain and pitied thim all. Thin I sthrolled 
around the point to the bay and found me bould Tad 
dhrillin’ his gang in an ould skiff, with home-made 
oars in their little fists and Tad sthandin’ in the 
stern-sheets, with a huge steerin’ sweep between his 
arms and much loud language in his mouth. When I 
appeared they looked at me and Tad swung his boat 
up to the beach and invited me in. ‘We will show 
you a dhrill ye will remimber/ says he, very polite. 
And with my steppin’ in he thrust the skiff off and the 
bhoys rowed with tremenjous strength. We wint 
along a full three knots an hour, till he yelled another 
ordher and the bhoys dropped their oars and jumped 
52 


l TAD SHELDON, SECOND-CLASS SCOUT 

over to one side; and I found mesilf undher the boat, 
with me mouth full of salt watther and ropes. Whin 
I saw the sun again me bould Tad says to me with 
disapprobation: “Ye aren’t experienced in capsize 
(thrill/ 

“ ‘In the establishment we use boats to keep us out 
of the watther,’ I responds, hunting for the papers out 
of me cap. ‘The newspapers are full of rebukes for 
thim that rock boats to their own peril.’ 

“With that they all felt ashamed and picked up me 
papers and grunted at each other, tryin’ to blame some- 
body else. And when I had me checks and me papers 
all safe again I smiled on thim and me bould Tad 
took heart. ‘ ’Tis not to tip the boat over,’ says he, 
‘but to get it back on an even keel after a sea’s cap- 
sized her — that is the point of the dhrill.’ And we 
pulled ashore to dhry. 

“Whiles we were sittin’ on the sand drainin’ the 
watther out of our shoes a small, brassy launch came 
down the bay, with many men and women pn her 
little decks. Me bould Tad looked at her with half- 
shut eyes and snorted. ‘Some day it will be the life- 
saving crew that must bring those ninnies back to 
their homes,’ he says. ‘The Pacific is nothing to fool 
with in a gasoline launch. ’Tis betther to be safe and 
buy your fish.’ And we watched the launch chug by 
and out on the bar and to sea. I learned that she was 
the Gladys by name and fetched tourists to the fishing 
grounds, nine miles down the coast. 

53 


THE BOY SCOUTS BOOK OF STORIES 

“All the bhoys were respictful to me excipt young 
Carson, who recognized in me bould Mickey the man 
who had asked for a hundredweight of clams. He 
stared at me superciliously and refused to have speech 
with me, bein’ ashamed, if I can judge of his youth- 
ful thoughts, of bein’ in the same company with a fool. 

“But I discovered that the gang was all bent on be- 
comin’ what they called second-class scouts, which 
they made plain to me was betther by one than a ten- 
derfoot. But they niver mintioned the lackings of 
the dollar, bein’ gintlemin. They wanted to know of 
me whether I thought that boatmanship and knowledge 
of sailing would be accipted be the powers instid of 
wisdom as to bird-tracks and intimacy with wild 
animals and bugs. And the heart of me opened, the 
youth of me came back; and I spoke to thim as one 
lad to another, with riference to me years in a 
steamer and the need of hard hands and a hard head. 

“The ind of it was that they rolled across the sand 
to me side and we all lay belly down over a chart, 
which me bould Tad had procured after the manner 
of bhoys, and they explained to me how they knew the 
coast for twelve miles each side of Yaquina Bay, with 
the tides and currents all plain in their heads. And 
I was surprised at what the young scuts knew — God 
save thim ! 

“At noon the visitors suddenly stopped lookin’ at 
the scenery and hastened away with hunger in their 
eyes. The crew ran the surf boat back into the sta- 
54 


TAD SHELDON, SECOND-CLASS SCOUT 

tion and the bhoys drew their skiff up out of har-rm’s 
way; and I wint back to me hotel and more clams. 
On the steps I found young Carson, grinning like a 
cat. 

“ ‘Ye don’t have to eat thim shell fish/ says he, look- 
in’ away. 'Gimme the sack of thim and I’ll peddle 
thim to the tourists and bring ye the money.’ 

“ 'Whisht and away with ye !’ I commanded. 'Who 
are you to be dictatin’ the diet of yer betthers?’ And 
he fled, without glancin’ behind him. 

"There was some remar-rks passed upon me wet 
clothes, but I tould the clerk in the office that me duty 
often called me to get drippin’ soaked and went into 
the dinin’-room with a stiff neck under me proud chin. 
There were but few in the place and the gur-rl stood 
by me shoulder to pilot me through the various coorses 
infor-rmed me that the most of the guests were out 
on the Gladys fishin’. 'And the most of thim will 
have little appetite for their dinners,’ she mused gently, 
thereby rebukin’ me for a second helpin’ of the fresh 
meat. 

"In the afternoon I sthrolled out on the beach again, 
but saw little. A heavy fog was rowlin’ from the 
nor’ard and the breeze before it was chill and damp 
as a widow’s bed. I walked for me health for an hour 
and then ran to kape war-rm. At the ind of my spurt 
I was amazed to find mesilf exactly at the hotel steps. 
I wint in and laid me down be the fire and slept. I 
woke to hear a woman wailin’. 

55 


THE BOY SCOUTS BOOK OF STORIES 


“Whin me eyes were properly open, and both pointed 
in the same direction, I found mesilf in the midst of 
a crowd. The sittin’-room was full of people, all 
with misery in their faces. The woman whose cries 
had woke me was standin’ be the windey, with one 
hand around a handkerchief. 'My God !’ she was say- 
in’ — 'My God. And me bhoy is on that boat!’ And 
I knew that it was throuble and that many people 
would have their heads in their hands that night, with 
aches in their throats. I got up — shoes in me hand. 
At sight of me bright unifor-rm ten men flung them- 
selves on me. 'You will help save them?’ they cried 
at me. 

“ ‘I will so soon as I get me shoes on,’ I remar-rked, 
pushing them off me toes. I put on me boots and 
stood up. 'Now I’ll save thim,’ says I. 'Where are 
they?’ 

“ 'They’re on the Gladys' says three at once. 
‘Thirty of our people — women and men and childher.’ 

“‘Why wake me?’ I demanded crosslike. 'Aren’t 
the brave life-savers even now sitting be the fire wait- 
in’ for people to come and be saved? I’m a chief 
engineer in the lighthouse establishmint and we save 
no lives excipt whin we can’t help it. Get the life- 
saving crew.’ 

“And they explained to me bould Mickey that the 
crew was gone twenty miles up the coast to rescue the 
men on a steam schooner that was wrecked off the 
Siletz, word of it having come down but two hours 

56 


TAD SHELDON, SECOND-CLASS SCOUT 

since. They looked at me unifor-rm and demanded 
their relatives at me hands. I shoved them away 
and wint out to think. In the prociss it occurred to 
me that the Gladys might not be lost. I wint back 
and asked thim how they knew it was time to mourn. 
‘If that launch is ashore they are as close to the fire 
as they can get,’ I tould thim. ‘And if she has gone 
down ’tis too late to dhry their stockings/ 

“ ‘She is lost in the fog/ I was infor-rmed. She 
shud have been back at her wharf at four o’clock. 
’Twas now turned six and the bar was rough and 
blanketed in mist. The captain of the harbor tug had 
stated, with wise shakes of the head, that the 
Gladys cud do no more than lay outside the night 
and wait for sunshine and a smooth crossing. I 
shoved thim away from me again and wint out to 
think. 

“It was a mur-rky fog, that sort that slathers over 
the watther like thick oil. Beyond the hill I cud hear 
the surf pounding like a riveter in a boiler. Over- 
head was a sheet of gray cloud, flying in curds before 
the wind, and in me mouth was the taste of the deep 
sea, blown in upon me with the scent of the storm. 

“Two words with the skipper of the tug tould me 
the rest. ‘It’s coming on to blow a little from the 
south-ard,’ said me bould mariner. ‘It’s so thick the 
Gladys can’t find her way back. Her passengers 
will be cold and hungry whin they retur-rn in the 
mor-rnin’/ 


57 


THE BOY SCOUTS BOOK OF STORIES 


“ ‘And will ye not go after thim?’ 

“ ‘I can’t/ says he. ‘Me steamer is built for the 
bay and one sea on the bar wud destroy the investmint. 
The life-saving crew is up north after a wreck/ 

“‘Is there no seagoin’ craft in this harbor?’ I de- 
mands. 

“ ‘There is not,’ says he. ‘Captain Tyler took his 
gas schooner down the coast yesterday.’ 

“So I sat down and thought, wonderin’ how I cud 
sneak off me unifor-rm and have peace. For I knew 
me brass buttons wud keep me tongue busy all night 
explainin’ that I was not a special providence paid by 
the Govemmint to save fools from purgat-ry. In me 
thoughts I heard a wor-rd in me ear. I looked up. 
’Twas me bould Tad, with a gang clustherin’ at his 
heels. 

“ ‘Ye have followed the sea for many years?’ says 
he. 

“ ‘I have followed it whin it was fair weather,’ I 
responded, ‘but the most of the time the sea has chased 
me ahead of it. Me coattail is still wet from the 
times it caught me. Speak up ! What is it ?’ 

“The bhoy pulled out of his jacket his ould chart 
and laid it before me. ‘The Gladys is at anchor 
off these rocks/ says he, layin’ a small finger on a 
spot. ‘And in this weather she will have to lie there 
as long as she can. Whin it blows she must up anchor 
and get out or go ashore here.’ He moved his finger 
a mite and it rested on what meant rocks. 

58 


TAD SHELDON, SECOND-CLASS SCOUT 

“‘Well/ I remar-rks. 

“ ‘Me father and all the bhoys’ fathers are gone 
up north to rescue the crew of a steam schooner that’s 
wrecked. Before they get back it will be too late. 
I thought ’ 

“ ‘What were ye thinkin’, ye scut ?’ says I fiercely. 

“He dropped one foot on the other and looked me 
between the eyes. ‘I was thinkin’ we wud go afther 
her and save her,’ says he, very bould. 

“I cast me eyes over the bunch of little felleys and 
laughed. But me bould Tad didn’t wink. ‘There’s 
people out there drownding,’ says he. ‘We’ve 
dhrilled and we know all the ropes; but we can’t pull 
our skiff across the bar and the big boat is not for us, 
bein’ the keeper’s orders. And we haven’t the weight 
to pull it anyhow.’ And he stared me out of me 
laugh. 

“ ‘There’s no seagoin’ craft in the harbor,’ I says, 
to stop his nonsinse. 

“ ‘There is another launch,’ he remar-rks casually. 

“We looked at each other and he thin says : ‘Can ye 
run a gasoline engine?’ 

“ ‘I have had to,’ I infor-rms him, ‘but I dislike the 
smell.’ 

“ ‘The owner of this launch is not here,’ says me 
young sprig. ‘And he niver tould us not to take it. 
If you’ll run the engine we’ll be off and rescue the 
folks on the Gladys !’ 

“Be the saints! I laughed to kill mesilf, till the 

59 


THE BOY SCOUTS BOOK OF STORIES 


little brat up and remar-rks to his gang : These light- 
house officers wear a unifor-rm and have no wor-rkin’ 
clothes at all, not needin’ thim in their business.’ 

“So I parleyed with thim a momint to save me face. 
'And how will ye save thim that’s dyin’ in deep 
watthers ?’ 

“ 'By to-morrow nobody can cross the bar,’ I’m 
infor-rmed. ‘And the skipper of the Gladys don’t 
know this coast. We’ll just pick him up and pilot 
him in.’ 

" 'But the bar !’ I protests. 'It’s too rough to cross 
a launch inward-bound, even if ye can get out.’ 

" ‘I know the soft places,’ says the little sprig of a 
bhoy, very proudly. 'Come on.’ 

“ 'And if I don’t come?’ I inquired. 

“He leaned over and touched the brass buttons on 
me jacket. 'Ye have sworn to do your best,’ says he. 
Tve not had a chance to take me oath yet as a second- 
class scout, but between ourselves we have done so. 
I appeal to yez as one man to another.’ 

“I got up. ‘I niver expicted to serve undher so 
small a captain,’ I remarks, ‘but that is neither here 
nor there. Where is that gasoline engine?’ 

“We stepped proudly off in the dusk, me bould Tad 
houldin’ himsilf very straight beside me and the gang 
marchin’ at our heels shoulder to shoulder. Prisintly 
we came to a wharf, and ridin’ to the float below it was 
a big white launch, cabined and decked. Tad jumped 
down and the gang foileyed. Thin I lowered mesilf 
60 


TAD SHELDON, SECOND-CLASS SCOUT 

down with dignity and intered the miserable engine 
room. 

“I have run every sort of engine and machine made 
by experts and other ignoramuses. I balk at nothing. 
The engine was new to me, but I lit a lantern and 
examined its inwards with anxiety and supercilious- 
ness. Prisintly, by the grace of God, it started off. 
A very small bhoy held the lantern for me while I 
adjusted the valves and the carbureter, and this bould 
lad infor-rmed me with pride that the ‘leader’ had 
assigned him to me as my engine-room crew. And 
whin the machine was revolvin’ with some speed 
that individal thrust his head in at the door to ask me 
if I was ready. ‘If ye are,’ says that limb of wicked- 
ness, ‘we will start, chief.’ 

“ ‘Ye may start any time,’ I says, with great respict. 
‘But whin we’ll stop is another matther.’ 

“ ‘Ye must keep her goin’ whiles we cross the bar,’ 
he infor-rms me, with a straight look. 

“The little gong rang and I threw in the clutch and 
felt the launch slide away. The jingle came and I 
opened her up. ’Twas a powerful machine and whin 
I felt the jerk and pull of her four cylinders I sint 
me assistant to find the the gasoline tank and see 
whether we had oil enough. Thinks I, if this machine 
eats up fuel like this we must e’en have enough and 
aplenty. The bhoy came back with smut on his nose 
and sthated that the tank was full. 

“ ‘How do ye know ?’ I demanded. 

61 


THE BOY SCOUTS BOOK OF STORIES 


“ Tve helped the owner fill her up several times/ 
says the brat. ‘The leader insists that we know the 
insides of every boat on the bay. ’Tis part of our 
practice, and whin we get to be scouts we will all run 
gasoline engines/ 

“So we went along and the engines war-rmed up; 
and I trimmed the lantern and sat me down comfort- 
able as a cat on a pan of dough. Thin there was a 
horrible rumpus on deck and some watther splashed 
down the back of me neck. ‘ ’Tis the bar/ says me 
proud engine-room crew, balancin' himsilf on the 
plates. 

“ ‘They are shovin’ dhrinks across it too fast for 
me/ I retorts, as more watther simmers down. 

“ ‘Oh, the leader knows all the soft places/ he re- 
turns proudly, this bould sprig. And with a whoop 
we drove through a big felly that almost swamped us. 
Thin, as far as I cud judge, the worst was over. 

“Prisintly we got into the trough of the sea and 
rowled along for an hour more. Then the jingle 
tinkled and I slowed down. Me bould Tad stuck his 
head in at the little door. ‘The Gladys is right in- 
shore from us/ he remarks, careless-like. ‘We will 
signal her to up anchor and come with us.’ He took 
me lantern and vanished. 

“Whin I waited long enough for all the oil to have 
burned out of three lanterns I turned the engines over 
to me crew and stepped out on deck. It was a weepin’ 
fog, with more rowlin’ in all the time, and the feel on 
62 


TAD SHELDON, SECOND-CLASS SCOUT 

me cheek was like that of a stor-rm. I saw me bould 
Tad on the little for’a’d deck, swingin’ his little lamp. 

“ ‘What’s the matther with that scut of a skipper?’ 
I inquires. 

“The boy was fair cryin’ with rage and shame. ‘He 
cannot undherstand the signal,’ says he ; ‘and ’tis dan- 
gerous to run closer to him in this sea.’ 

“ ‘If he don’t understand yer signal,’ says I, ‘ ’tis 
useless to talk more to him with yer ar-rms. Use yer 
tongue.’ 

“And at that he raised a squeal that cud be heard a 
hundred feet, the voice of him bein’ but a bhoy’s, 
without noise and power. ‘Let be,’ says I. T’ve 
talked me mind across the deep watthers many times.’ 
And I filled me lungs and let out a blast that fetched 
everybody on deck on the other launch. Then I tould 
that skipper, with rage in me throat, that he must 
up anchor and folley us or be drownded with all his 
passengers dragging on his coattails through purgat’ry. 
And he listened, and prisintly we saw the Gladys 
creep through the darkness and fog up till us. When 
she crossed our stern me bould Tad tould me to 
command her to folley us into port. 

“Ravin’s and ragin’s were nothin’ to the language 
we traded across that watther for the five minutes 
necessary to knock loose the wits of that heathen 
mariner. In the end he saw the light, and the pas- 
sengers that crowded his sloppy decks waved their 
arms and yelled with delight. Me bould Tad went 

63 


THE BOY SCOUTS BOOK OF STORIES 


into the little pilot house and slammed the door. He 
spoke to me sharply. ‘ ’Twill blow a gale before 
midnight.’ He rang the bell for full speed ahead. 

“An hour later I was signaled to stop me machines. 
I dropped the clutch and sint me assistant for news. 
He came back with big eyes. ‘The leader says the 
other launch can’t make it across the bar,’ he reports. 

“ ‘Well,’ I says. 

“ ‘We’re goin’ to take off her passengers and cross 
it oursilves,’ says the brat. With that he vanishes. 
I foileyed him. 

“We were stopped right in the fog, with roily waves 
towerin’ past us and the dull noise of the bar ahead 
of us. The Gladys was right astern of us, and even 
in the darkness I cud catch a glimpse of white faces 
and hear little screams of women. I went to lee- 
ward and there found me bould Tad launchin’ the 
little dingy that was stowed on the roof of the cabin. 
Whin it was overside four of me bould gang drops 
into it and pulls away for the other launch. ‘They’ll 
be swamped and drownded,’ I remar-rks. 

“ ‘They will not,’ says Tad. ‘I trained thim mesilf. 
’Tis child’s play.’ 

“ ‘Childher play with queer toys in this counthry,’ 
I continues to mesilf; and I had a pain in me pit to 
see thim careerin’ on the big waves that looked nigh 
to breakin’ any minute. But they came back with 
three women and a baby, with nothin’ to say excipt : 
‘There’s thirty-one of thim, leader!’ 

64 



“ i WENT TO LEEWARD AND THERE FOUND ME BOULD TAD LAUNCHIN THE LITTLE 

dingy” 





i 






















■ 

































































^ - * 









TAD SHELDON, SECOND-CLASS SCOUT 

“ ‘Leave the min/ says he, real sharp. ‘Tell the 
captain we’ll come back for thim after we’ve landed 
the women safe/ 

“I tucked the women down in the afther cabin, snug 
and warm, and wint back on deck. The boat was 
away again, swingin’ over the seas as easy as a bird. 

“ ‘That’s good boatmanship,’ I remar-rks. 

“ ‘It’s young Carson in command/ says me bould 
bhoy leader. 

“ ’Twas fifteen minutes before the boat came back, 
and thin there was a man in it, with two women. 
Whin it swung alongside Tad helped out the ladies 
and thin pushed at the man with his foot. ‘Back ye 
go!’ he says. ‘No room on this craft for min/ 

“ ‘But you’re only a lot of bhoys !’ says the man in 
a rage. ‘Who are you to give orders? I’ll come 
aboard.’ 

“ ‘Ye will not/ says me bould Tad, and I reached 
into the engine room for a spanner whereby to back 
him up, for I admired the spunk of the young sprig. 
But the man stared into the lad’s face and said noth- 
in’. And the boat pulled away with him still starin’ 
over his shouldher. 

“The nixt boatload was all the rest of the women- 
folks and childher and Tad ordered the dingy swung 
in and secured. Thin he tur-rned to me. ‘We will 
go in.’ 

“‘Which way?’ I demands. 

“He put his little hand to his ear. ‘Hear it?’ he 

65 


THE BOY SCOUTS BOOK OF STORIES 


asks calmly. I listened and by the great Hivins there 
was a whistlin’ buoy off in the darkness. I wint down 
to me machines. 

“I’ve run me engines many a long night whin the 
devil was bruising his knuckles agin the plates be- 
neath me. But the nixt hour made me tin years 
ouldher. For we hadn’t more’n got well started in 
before it was ‘Stop her!’ and Tull speed ahead!’ and 
‘Ease her!’ Me assistant was excited, but kept on 
spillin’ oil into the cups and feelin’ the bearin’s like an 
ould hand. Once, whin the sea walloped over cur 
little craft, he grinned across at me. ‘There ain’t 
many soft places to-night !’ says he. 

“ ‘Ye’re a child of the Ould Nick,’ says I, ‘and eat 
fire out of an asbestos spoon.’ 

“ ‘ ’Tis the scouts’ law not to be afraid,’ retor-rts 
me young demon. But me attintion was distracted 
be a tremenjous scamperin’ overhead. ‘For the love 
of mercy, what is that?’ I yelled. 

“ ‘ ’Tis the leader puttin’ out the drag,’ says me 
crew. ‘Whin the breakers are high it’s safer to ride 
in with a drag over the stern. It keeps the boat from 
broachin’ to.’ And to the dot of his last word I felt 
the sudden, strong pull of something on the launch’s 
tail. Thin something lifted us up and laid us down 
with a slap, like a pan of dough on a mouldin’ board. 
Me machines coughed and raced and thin almost 
stopped. Whin they were goin’ again I saw me 
assistant houldin’ to a stanchion. His face was pasty 
66 


TAD SHELDON, SECOND-CLASS SCOUT 

white and he gulped. 'Are ye scared at last?* I de- 
manded of him. 

“ 'I am seasick/ he chokes back. And he was, be 
Hivins ! 

"So we joggled and bobbled about and I wondhered 
how many times we had crossed the bar from ind to 
ind, whin suddenly it smoothed down and I saw a red 
light through the little windey. Me assistant saw it 
too. 'That’s the range light off the jetty/ says he. 
'We’re inside/ 

"I shoved open the door to the deck and looked out. 
The fog lay about us thick and the wind was risin’; 
I cud barely make out the lights ahead. I stuck me 
head out and glanced astern. ’Way back of us, like 
a match behind a curtain, I saw a little light bobbing 
up and down in the fog. I took me crew be the ear 
and thrust his head out beside mine. 'What is that?’ 
I demanded. 

" ' ’Tis the other launch/ he says. 'I guess they 
foileyed us in.’ 

"We ran up to the wharf and the gang made every- 
thing fast; and then me bould Tad comes to me with 
a sheepish face. 'Wud ye mind tellin’ the ladies and 
childher that they can go ashore and get to the hotel ?’ 
he says. 

"So it was me that wint in and tould the ladies 
they were saved and helped thim to the wharf and 
saw thim started for the hotel. Thin I came back to 
the launch, but there was nobody there. Me bould 
67 


THE BOY SCOUTS BOOK OF STORIES 


gang had disappeared. Just thin the other launch 
came up, limpin’ on one leg, covered with drippin’ 
men and blasphemy. They didn’t wait for the lines 
to be put out, but jumped for the float like rats out of 
biscuit barrels and swarmed for the hotel. Whiles I 
was watchin’ thim the skipper of the Gladys pulls 
himself out of his wrecked pilot house and approaches 
me with heavy footfalls. Tm toold that ’twas bhoys 
that manned this launch,’ he remar-rks. ‘If it is so, 
I wudn’t have come in and nearly lost me ship.’ 

“ ‘If it hadn’t been for the bhoys ye’d now be drift- 
in’ into the breakers off yer favorite fishin’ spot,’ I 
retor-rts. ‘Nixt time ye try suicide leave the women 
and childher ashore.’ And with the words out of me 
mouth the gale broke upon us like the blow of a fish. 

“We took shelter behind a warehouse and the skip- 
per of the ‘Gladys’ said in me ear: ‘I suppose the 
owner of the launch had to get what crew he cud. 
Where is he? I’d like to thank him.’ 

“ ‘If ye will come with me to the hotel ye shall see 
the man ye owe life to,’ I infor-rmed him. 

“As we intered the hotel a tall man, with the mar-rk 
of aut’ority on him, observed me unifor-rm and ad- 
dressed me : ‘What do you know about this ?’ 

“Aut’ority is always aut’ority, and I tould him what 
I knew and had seen, not forbear in’ to mintion the 
gang and their wild ambitions. And whin I had fin- 
ished this man said : ‘I shall muster thim in to-morrow. 

68 


TAD SHELDON, SECOND-CLASS SCOUT 

I happen to be in command of the scouts in this 
district.' 

“ ‘But they haven't their dollars to put in the little 
bank,' I remarked. ‘And they tell me without their 
dollar they cannot be second-class scouts, whativer 
that is.’ 

“At this a fat man reached for a hat off the hook 
and put his hand in his pocket, drew it out and emptied 
it into the hat, and passed it. 

“And while the money jingled into it my respict for 
the brave lads rose into me mouth. ‘They won’t 
take it,' I said. ‘They have refused money before. 
'Tis their oath.' 

“The man with aut’ority looked over at me. ‘The 
chief is right,’ he said. ‘They have earned only a 
dollar apiece. Whose launch was that they took?' 

“ ‘Faith and I don’t know,' I said. ‘They remar- 
rked that the owner — Hivin bless him! — had niver 
forbidden thim to use it.' 

“ ‘Thin we must pay the rint of it for the night,' 
says he. ‘But the bhoys will get only a dollar apiece. 
Where are they?' 

“ ‘They disappeared whin the boat was fast, sir,' 
says I. ‘I think they wint home. 'Tis bedtime.' 

“ ‘D’ye know where the patrol-leader lives ?' he 
demands. 

“So we walked up the hill in the darkness and wind 
till we reached the house of me bould Tad. A knock 
at the door brought the missus, with a towel on her 

69 


THE BOY SCOUTS BOOK OF STORIES 


ar-rm. I pushed in. ‘We've come to see yer son/ 
says I. 

“We stepped in and saw the young sprig be the 
fire, on a chair, with his feet in a bowl of watther and 
musthard. He was for runnin’ whin he saw us, but 
cudn’t for the lack of clothes. So he scowled at us. 
‘This is the commander of the scouts/ I says, intro- 
ducin' me tall companion. ‘And here’s yer five dol- 
lars to put with yer dollar and six bits into the little 
bank, so’s yez can all of yez be second-class scouts.' 

“ ‘We can’t take the money,' says he, with a ter- 
rible growl. ‘The oath forbids us to take money for 
savin' life.' 

“ ‘Don’t be a hero,' I rebukes him. ‘Ye’re only a 
small bhoy in his undherclothes with yer feet in hot 
watther and musthard. No hero was ever in such a 
predicament. This gintleman will infor-rm ye about 
the money.' 

“Me bould companion looked at the slip of a lad and 
said sharply : ‘Report to me to-morrow morning with 
yer patrol at sivin o’clock to be musthered in.' 

“With that we mar-rched out into the stor-rm and 
back to the hotel, where I wint to slape like a bhoy 
mesilf — me that was sixty-four me last birthday and 
niver thought to make a fool of mesilf with a gang 
of bhoys and a gasoline engine — and that on a 
holiday!” 



IV. — The Red-Headed League 

By Arthur Conan Doyle 

I HAD called upon my friend, Mr. Sherlock 
Holmes, one day in the autumn of last year, 
and found him in deep conversation with a very 
stout, florid-faced elderly gentleman, with fiery red 
hair. With an apology for my intrusion, I was about 
to withdraw, when Holmes pulled me abruptly into 
the room and closed the door behind me. 

“You could not possibly have come at a better time, 
my dear Watson,” he said, cordially. 

“I was afraid that you were engaged.” 

“So I am. Very much so.” 

“Then I can wait in the next room.” 

“Not at all. This gentleman, Mr. Wilson, has been 
my partner and helper in many of my most success- 
71 


THE BOY SCOUTS BOOK OF STORIES 


ful cases, and I have no doubt that he will be of the 
utmost use to me in yours also.” 

The stout gentleman half rose from his chair and 
gave a bob of greeting, with a quick little questioning 
glance from his small, fat-encircled eyes. 

“Try the settee,” said Holmes, relapsing into his 
arm-chair, and putting his finger-tips together, as was 
his custom when in judicial moods. “I know, my dear 
Watson, that you share my love of all that is bizarre 
and outside the conventions and humdrum routine of 
everyday life. You have shown your relish for it by 
the enthusiasm which has prompted you to chronicle, 
and, if you will excuse my saying so, somewhat to 
embellish so many of my own little adventures.” 

“Your cases have indeed been of the greatest in- 
terest to me,” I observed. 

“You will remember that I remarked the other day, 
just before we went into the very simple problem pre- 
sented by Miss Mary Sutherland, that for strange 
effects and extraordinary combinations we must go to 
life itself, which is always far more daring than any 
effort of the imagination.” 

“A proposition which I took the liberty of doubt- 
ing.” 

“You did, doctor, but none the less you must come 
round to my view, for otherwise I shall keep on piling 
fact upon fact on you, until your reason breaks down 
under them and acknowledges me to be right Now, 
Mr. Jabez Wilson here has been good enough to call 
72 


THE RED-HEADED LEAGUE 

upon me this morning, and to begin a narrative which 
promises to be one of the most singular which I have 
listened to for some time. You have heard me re- 
mark that the strangest and most unique things are 
very often connected not with the larger but with the 
smaller crimes, and occasionally, indeed, where there 
is room for doubt whether any positive crime has been 
committed. As far as I have heard, it is impossible 
for me to say whether the present case is an instance 
of crime or not, but the course of events is certainly 
among the most singular that I have ever listened to. 
Perhaps, Mr. Wilson, you would have the great kind- 
ness to recommence your narrative. I ask you, not 
merely because my friend, Dr. Watson, has not heard 
the opening part, but also because the peculiar nature 
of the story makes me anxious to have every possible 
detail from your lips. As a rule, when I have heard 
some slight indication of the course of events I am 
able to guide myself by the thousands of other similar 
cases which occur to my memory. In the present in- 
stance I am forced to admit that the facts are, to the 
best of my belief, unique.” 

The portly client puffed out his chest with an ap- 
pearance of some little pride, and pulled a dirty and 
wrinkled newspaper from the inside pocket of his 
greatcoat. As he glanced down the advertisement col- 
umn, with his head thrust forward, and the paper flat- 
tened out upon his knee, I took a good look at the man, 
and endeavored, after the fashion of my companion, 
73 


THE BOY SCOUTS BOOK OF STORIES 


to read the indications which might be presented by 
his dress or appearance. 

I did not gain very much, however, by my inspec- 
tion. Our visitor bore every mark of being an aver- 
age commonplace British tradesman, obese, pompous, 
and slow. He wore rather baggy gray shepherd’s 
check trousers, a not over-clean black frock-coat, un- 
buttoned in the front, and a drab waistcoat with a 
heavy brassy Albert chain, and a square pierced bit 
of metal dangling down as an ornament. A frayed 
top hat and a faded brown overcoat with a wrinkled 
velvet collar lay upon a chair beside him. Altogether, 
look as I would, there was nothing remarkable about 
the man save his blazing red head and the expression 
of extreme chagrin and discontent upon his features. 

Sherlock Holmes’ quick eye took in my occupation, 
and he shook his head with a smile as he noticed my 
questioning glances. “Beyond the obvious facts that 
he has at some time done manual labor, that he takes 
snuff, that he is a Freemason, that he has been in 
China, and that he has done a considerable amount of 
writing lately, I can deduce nothing else.” 

Mr. Jabez Wilson started up in his chair, with his 
forefinger upon the paper, but his eyes upon my com- 
panion. 

“How, in the name of good fortune, did you know 
all that, Mr. Holmes?” he asked. “How did you 
know, for example, that I did manual labor? It’s as 
true as gospel, for I began as a ship’s carpenter.” 

74 


THE RED-HEADED LEAGUE 


“Your hands, my dear sir. You right hand is quite 
a size larger than your left. You have worked with 
it and the muscles are more developed/’ 

“Well, the snuff, then, and the Freemasonry?” 

“I won’t insult your intelligence by telling you how 
I read that, especially as, rather against the strict 
rules of your order, you use an arc and compass 
breastpin.” 

“Ah, of course, I forgot that. But the writing?” 

“What else can be indicated by that right cuff so 
very shiny for five inches, and the left one with the 
smooth patch near the elbow where you rest it upon 
the desk.” 

“Well, but China?” 

“The fish which you have tattooed immediately 
above your wrist could only have been done in China. 
I have made a small study of tattoo marks, and have 
even contributed to the literature of the subject. That 
trick of staining the fishes’ scales of a delicate pink 
is quite peculiar to China. When, in addition, I see 
a Chinese coin hanging from your watch-chain, the 
matter becomes even more simple.” 

Mr. Jabez Wilson laughed heavily. “Well, I 
never !” said he. “I thought at first that you had done 
something clever, but I see that there was nothing in 
it after all.” 

“I begin to think, Watson,” said Holmes, “that I 
make a mistake in explaining. ' Omne ignotum pro 
magniUco / you know, and my poor little reputation, 
75 


THE BOY SCOUTS BOOK OF STORIES 


such as it is, will suffer shipwreck if I am so candid. 
Can you not find the advertisement, Mr. Wilson?” 

“Yes, I have got it now,” he answered, with his 
thick, red finger planted half-way down the column. 
“Here it is. This is what began it all. You just 
read it for yourself, sir.” 

I took the paper from him and read as follows : 

“To the Red-headed League: On account of the bequest 
of the late Ezekiah Hopkins, of Lebanon, Pa., U. S. A., there 
is now another vacancy open which entitles a member of the 
League to a salary of four pounds a week for purely nominal 
services. All red-headed men who are sound in body and 
mind and above the age of twenty-one years are eligible. 
Apply in person on Monday, at eleven o’clock, to Duncan 
Ross, at the offices of the League, 7 Pope’s Court, Fleet 
Street.” 

“What on earth does this mean?” I ejaculated, after 
I had twice read over the extraordinary announce- 
ment. 

Holmes chuckled and wriggled in his chair, as was 
his habit when in high spirits. “It is a little off the 
beaten track, isn’t it?” said he. “And now, Mr. Wil- 
son, off you go at scratch, and tell us all about your- 
self, your household, and the effect which this ad- 
vertisement had upon your fortunes. You will first 
make a note, doctor, of the paper and the date.” 

“It is The Morning Chronicle of April 27, 1890. 
Just two months ago.” 

“Very good. Now, Mr. Wilson.” 

76 


THE RED-HEADED LEAGUE 


“Well, it is just as I have been telling you, Mr. Sher- 
lock Holmes,” said Jabez Wilson, mopping his fore- 
head, “I have a small pawnbroker’s business at Co- 
burg Square, near the City. It’s not a very large af- 
fair, and of late years it has not done more than just 
give me a living. I used to be able to keep two as- 
sistants, but now I only keep one; and I would have 
a job to pay him but that he is willing to come for 
half wages, so as to learn the business.” 

“What is the name of this obliging youth?” asked 
Sherlock Holmes. 

“His name is Vincent Spaulding, and he’s not such 
a youth either. It’s hard to say his age. I should 
not wish a smarter assistant, Mr. Holmes ; and I know 
very well that he could better himself, and earn twice 
what I am able to give him. But, after all, if he is 
satisfied, why should I put ideas in his head?” 

“Why, indeed? You seem most fortunate in hav- 
ing an employee who comes under the full market 
price. It is not a common experience among employ- 
ers in this age. I don’t know that your assistant is 
not as remarkable as your advertisement.” 

“Oh, he has his faults, too,” said Mr. Wilson. 
“Never was such a fellow for photography. Snapping 
away with a camera when he ought to be improving 
his mind, and then diving down into the cellar like 
a rabbit into its hole to develop his pictures. That is 
his main fault ; but, on the whole, he’s a good worker. 
There’s no vice in him.” 


77 


THE BOY SCOUTS BOOK OF STORIES 


“He is still with you, I presume ?” 

“Yes, sir. He and a girl of fourteen, who does a 
bit of simple cooking, and keeps the place clean — 
that’s all I have in the house, for I am a widower, 
and never had any family. We live very quietly, sir, 
the three of us; and we keep a roof over our heads, 
and pay our debts, if we do nothing more. 

“The first thing that put us out was that advertise- 
ment. Spaulding, he came down into the office just 
this day eight weeks, with this very paper in his hand, 
and he says : 

“ ‘I wish to the Lord, Mr. Wilson, that I was a 
red-headed man.’ 

“ ‘Why that ?’ I asks. 

“ ‘Why,’ says he, ‘here’s another vacancy on the 
League of the Red-headed Men. It’s worth quite a 
little fortune to any man who gets it, and I understand 
that there are more vacancies than there are men, so 
that the trustees are at their wit’s end what to do 
with the money. If my hair would only change color 
here’s a nice little crib all ready for me to step into.* 

“‘Why, what is it, then?’ I asked. You see, Mr. 
Holmes, I am a very stay-at-home man, and, as my 
business came to me instead of my having to go to 
it, I was often weeks on end without putting my foot 
over the door-mat. In that way I didn’t know much 
of what was going on outside, and I was always glad 
of a bit of news. 


78 


THE RED-HEADED LEAGUE 


“ ‘Have you never heard of the League of the Red- 
headed Men?’ he asked, with his eyes open. 

“ ‘Never.’ 

“ ‘Why, I wonder at that, for you are eligible your- 
self for one of the vacancies.’ w 

“ ‘And what are they worth ?’ I asked. 

“ ‘Oh, merely a couple of hundred a year, but the 
work is slight, and it need not interfere very much 
with one’s other occupations.’ 

“Well, you can easily think that that made me prick 
up my ears, for the business has not been over good 
for some years, and an extra couple of hundred would 
have been very handy. 

“ ‘Tell me all about it,’ said I. 

“ ‘Well,’ said he, showing me the advertisement, 
‘you can see for yourself that the League has a va- 
cancy, and there is the address where you should ap- 
ply for particulars. As far as I can make out, the 
League was founded by an American millionaire, 
Ezekiah Hopkins, who was very peculiar in his ways. 
He was himself red-headed, and he had a great sym- 
pathy for all red-headed men; so, when he died, it 
was found that he had left his enormous fortune in 
the hands of trustees, with instructions to apply the 
interest to the providing of easy berths to men whose 
hair is of that color. From all I hear it is splendid 
pay, and very little to do.’ 

“ ‘But,’ said I, ‘there would be millions of red- 
headed men who would apply.’ 

79 


THE BOY SCOUTS BOOK OF STORIES 


“ ‘Not so many as you might think/ he answered. 
‘You see it is really confined to Londoners, and to 
grown men. This American had started from Lon- 
don when he was young, and he wanted to do the 
old town a good turn. Then, again, I have heard it 
is no use your applying if your hair is light red, or 
dark red, or anything but real, bright, blazing fiery 
red. Now, if you cared to apply, Mr. Wilson, you 
would just walk in; but perhaps it would hardly be 
worth your while to put yourself out of the way for 
the sake of a few hundred pounds/ 

“Now it is a fact, gentlemen, as you may see for 
yourselves, that my hair is of a very full and rich tint, 
so that it seemed to me that, if there was to be any 
competition in the matter, I stood as good a chance 
as any man that I had ever met. Vincent Spaulding 
seemed to know so much about it that I thought he 
might prove useful, so I just ordered him to put up 
the shutters for the day, and to come right away with 
me. He was very willing to have a holiday, so we 
shut the business up, and started off for the address 
that was given us in the advertisement. 

“I never hope to see such a sight as that again, Mr. 
Holmes. From north, south, east, and west every 
man who had a shade of red in his hair had tramped 
into the City to answer the advertisement. Fleet 
Street was choked with red-headed folk, and Pope’s 
Court looked like a coster’s orange barrow. I should 
not have thought there were so many in the whole 
8q 


THE RED-HEADED LEAGUE 


country as were brought together by that single ad- 
vertisement. Every shade of color they were — straw, 
lemon, orange, brick, Irish-setter, liver, clay; but, as 
Spaulding said, there were not many who had the real 
vivid flame-colored tint. When I saw how many were 
waiting, I would have given it up in despair; but 
Spaulding would not hear of it. How he did it I 
could not imagine, but he pushed and pulled and butted 
until he got me through the crowd, and right up to 
the steps which led to the office. There was a double 
stream upon the stair, some going up in hope, and 
some coming back dejected; but we wedged in as well 
as we could, and soon found ourselves in the office. ,, 

“Your experience has been a most entertaining one,” 
remarked Holmes, as his client paused and refreshed 
his memory with a huge pinch of snuff. “Pray con- 
tinue your very interesting statement.” 

“There was nothing in the office but a couple of 
wooden chairs and a deal table, behind which sat a 
small man, with a head that was even redder than 
mine. He said a few words to each candidate as he 
came up, and then he always managed to find some 
fault in them which would disqualify them. Getting 
a vacancy did not seem to be such a very easy matter 
after all. However, when our turn came, the little 
man was much more favorable to me than to any of 
the others, and he closed the door as we entered, so 
that he might have a private word with us. 

81 


THE BOY SCOUTS BOOK OF STORIES 


“ This is Mr. Jabez Wilson/ said my assistant, 
‘and he is willing to fill a vacancy in the League/ 

“ ‘And he is admirably suited for it/ the other an- 
swered. ‘He has every requirement. I cannot recall 
when I have seen anything so fine/ He took a step 
backward, cocked his head on one side, and gazed at 
my hair until I felt quite bashful. Then suddenly he 
plunged forward, wrung my hand, and congratulated 
me warmly on my success. 

“ ‘It would be injustice to hesitate/ said he. ‘You 
will, however, I am sure, excuse me for taking an ob- 
vious precaution/ With that he seized my hair in 
both his hands, and tugged until I yelled with the pain. 
‘There is water in your eyes/ said he, as he released 
me. ‘I perceive that all is as it should be. But we 
have to be careful, for we have twice been deceived by 
wigs and once by paint. I could tell you tales of cob- 
bler’s wax which would disgust you with human na- 
ture/ He stepped over to the window and shouted 
through it at the top of his voice that the vacancy was 
filled. A groan of disappointment came up from be- 
low, and the folk all trooped away in different direc- 
tions, until there was not a red head to be seen except 
my own and that of the manager. 

“ ‘My name/ said he, ‘is Mr. Duncan Ross, and I 
am myself one of the pensioners upon the fund left 
by our noble benefactor. Are you a married man, 
Mr. Wilson? Have you a family?’ 

“I answered that I had not. 

82 


THE RED-HEADED LEAGUE 


“His face fell immediately. 

“ ‘Dear me !’ he said, gravely, ‘that is very serious 
indeed ! I am sorry to hear you say that. The fund 
was, of course, for the propagation and spread of the 
red-heads as well as for their maintenance. It is ex- 
ceedingly unfortunate that you should be a bachelor/ 

“My face lengthened at this, Mr. Holmes, for I 
thought that I was not to have the vacancy after all; 
but, after thinking it over for a few minutes, he said 
that it would be all right. 

“ ‘In the case of another/ said he, ‘the objection 
might be fatal, but we must stretch a point in favor of 
a man with such a head of hair as yours. When shall 
you be able to enter upon your new duties?’ 

“ ‘Well, it is a little awkward, for I have a business 
already/ said I. 

“ ‘Oh, never mind about that, Mr. Wilson !’ said 
Vincent Spaulding. ‘I shall be able to look after that 
for you/ 

“ ‘What would be the hours ?’ I asked. 

“ ‘Ten to two/ 

“Now a pawnbroker’s business is mostly done of an 
evening, Mr. Holmes, especially Thursday and Friday 
evenings, which is just before pay-day; so it would 
suit me very well to earn a little in the mornings. Be- 
sides, I knew that my assistant was a good man, and 
that he would see to anything that turned up. 

“ ‘That would suit me very well/ said I. ‘And the 
pay?’ 


83 


THE BOY SCOUTS BOOK OF STORIES 


“ Ts four pounds a week/ 

“ ‘And the work ?’ 

“ ‘Is purely nominal/ 

“ ‘What do you call purely nominal ?’ 

“ ‘Well, you have to be in the office, or at least in 
the building, the whole time. If you leave, you for- 
feit your whole position forever. The will is very 
clear upon that point. You don’t comply with the 
conditions if you budge from the office during that 
time/ 

“ ‘It’s only four hours a day, and I should not think 
of leaving,’ said I. 

“ ‘No excuse will avail,’ said Mr. Duncan Ross, 
‘neither sickness, nor business, nor anything else. 
There you must stay, or you lose your billet.’ 

“ ‘And the work ?’ 

“ ‘1s to copy out the “Encyclopaedia Britannica.” 
There is the first volume of it in that press. You 
must find your own ink, pens, and blotting-paper, but 
we provide this table and chair. Will you be ready 
to-morrow ?’ 

“ ‘Certainly,’ I answered. 

“ ‘Then, good-by, Mr. Jabez Wilson, and let me con- 
gratulate you once more on the important position 
which you have been fortunate enough to gain/ He 
bowed me out of the room, and I went home with my 
assistant hardly knowing what to say or do, I was so 
pleased at my own good fortune. 

“Well, I thought over the matter all day, and by 

84 


THE RED-HEADED LEAGUE 


evening I was in low spirits again; for I had quite 
persuaded myself that the whole affair must be some 
great hoax or fraud, though what its object might be 
I could not imagine. It seemed altogether past be- 
lief that any one could make such a will, or that they 
would pay such a sum for doing anything so simple 
as copying out the ‘Encyclopaedia Britannica.’ Vincent 
Spaulding did what he could to cheer me up, but by 
bed-time I had reasoned myself out of the whole thing. 
However, in the morning I determined to have a look 
at it anyhow, so I bought a penny bottle of ink, and 
with a quill pen and seven sheets of foolscap paper I 
started off for Pope’s Court. 

“Well, to my surprise and delight everything was 
as right as possible. The table was set out ready for 
me, and Mr. Duncan Ross was there to see that I got 
fairly to work. He started me off upon the letter A, 
and then he left me ; but he would drop in from time 
to time to see that all was right with me. At two 
o’clock he bade me good-day, complimented me upon 
the amount that I had written, and locked the door 
of the office after me. 

“This went on day after day, Mr. Holmes, and on 
Saturday the manager came in and planked down four 
golden sovereigns for my week’s work. It was the 
same next week, and the same the week after. Every 
morning I was there at ten, and every afternoon I 
left at two. By degrees Mr. Duncan Ross took to 
coming in only once of a morning, and then, after a 

85 


THE BOY SCOUTS BOOK OF STORIES 


time, he did not come in at all. Still, of course, I 
never dared to leave the room for an instant, for I 
was not sure when he might come, and the billet was 
such a good one, and suited me so well, that I would 
not risk the loss of it. 

“Eight weeks passed away like this, and I had writ- 
ten about Abbots, and Archery, and Armor, and Ar- 
chitecture, and Attica, and hoped with diligence that 
I might get on to the B’s before very long. It cost me 
something in foolscap, and I had pretty nearly filled 
a shelf with my writings. And then suddenly the 
whole business came to an end.” 

“To an end?” 

“Yes, sir. And no later than this morning. I 
went to my work as usual at ten o’clock, but the door 
was shut and locked, with a little square of cardboard 
hammered onto the middle of the panel with a tack. 
Here it is, and you can read for yourself.” 

He held up a piece of white cardboard, about the 
size of a sheet of note-paper. It read in this fash- 
ion: 

“The Red-headed League is Dissolved. 

Oct. 9, 1890.” 

Sherlock Holmes and I surveyed this curt announce- 
ment and the rueful face behind it, until the comical 
side of the affair so completely overtopped every con- 
sideration that we both burst out into a roar of laugh- 
ter. 


86 


THE RED-HEADED LEAGUE 


“I cannot see that there is anything very funny/* 
cried our client, flushing up to the roots of his flaming 
head. “If you can do nothing better than laugh at 
me, I can go elsewhere/* 

“No, no/* cried Holmes, shoving him back into the 
chair from which he had half risen. “I really 
wouldn’t miss your case for the world. It is most re- 
freshingly unusual. But there is, if you will excuse 
my saying so, something just a little funny about it. 
Pray what steps did you take when you found the 
card upon the door?” 

“I was staggered, sir. I did not know what to do. 
Then I called at the offices round, but none of them 
seemed to know anything about it. Finally, I went 
to the landlord, who is an accountant living on the 
ground floor, and I asked him if he could tell me what 
had become of the Red-headed League. He said that 
he had never heard of any such body. Then I asked 
him who Mr. Duncan Ross was. He answered that 
the name was new to him. 

“ ‘Well/ said I, ‘the gentleman at No. 4/ 

“ ‘What, the red-headed man?* 

“ ‘Yes/ 

“ ‘Oh/ said he, ‘his name was William Morris. He 
was a solicitor, and was using my room as a tem- 
porary convenience until his new premises were ready. 
He moved out yesterday/ 

“ ‘Where could I find him ?’ 

“ ‘Oh, at his new offices. He did tell me the ad- 

87 


THE BOY SCOUTS BOOK OF STORIES 


dress. Yes, 17 King Edward Street, near St. Paul’s/ 
“I started off, Mr. Holmes, but when I got to that 
address it was a manufactory of artificial knee-caps, 
and no one in it had ever heard of either Mr. William 
Morris or Mr. Duncan Ross/ 

“And what did you do then?” asked Holmes. 

“I went home to Saxe-Coburg Square, and I took 
the advice of my assistant. But he could not help 
me in any way. He could only say that if I waited 
I should hear by post. But that was not quite good 
enough, Mr. Holmes. I did not wish to lose such a 
place without a struggle, so, as I had heard that you 
were good enough to give advice to poor folk who 
were in need of it, I came right away to you.” 

“And you did very wisely,” said Holmes. “Your 
case is an exceedingly remarkable one, and I shall be 
happy to look into it. From what you have told me 
I think that it is possible that graver issues hang from 
it than might at first sight appear.” 

“Grave enough!” said Mr. Jabez Wilson. “Why, I 
have lost four pound a week.” 

“As far as you are personally concerned,” remarked 
Holmes, “I do not see that you have any grievance 
against this extraordinary league. On the contrary, 
you are, as I understand, richer by some thirty pounds, 
to say nothing of the minute knowledge which you 
have gained on every subject which comes under the 
letter A. You have lost nothing by them.” 

“No, sir. But I want to find out about them, and 

88 


THE RED-HEADED LEAGUE 


who they are, and what their object was in playing 
this prank — if it was a prank — upon me. It was a 
pretty expensive joke for them, for it cost them two- 
and-thirty pounds.” 

“We shall endeavor to clear up these points for you. 
And, first, one or two questions, Mr. Wilson. This 
assistant of yours who first called your attention to 
the advertisement — how long had he been with you?” 

“About a month then.” 

“How did he come?” 

“In answer to an advertisement.” 

“Was he the only applicant?” 

“No, I had a dozen.” 

“Why did you pick him?” 

“Because he was handy and would come cheap.” 

“At half wages, in fact.” 

“Yes.” 

“What is he like, this Vincent Spaulding?” 

“Small, stout-built, very quick in his ways, no hair 
on his face, though he’s not short of thirty. Has a 
white splash of acid upon his forehead.” 

Holmes sat up in his chair in considerable excite- 
ment. “I thought as much,” said he. “Have you 
ever observed that his ears are pierced for earrings?” 

“Yes, sir. He told me that a gypsy had done it for 
him when he was a lad.” 

“Hum!” said Holmes, sinking back in deep thought. 
“He is still with you?” 

“Oh, yes, sin; I have only just left him.” 

89 


THE BOY SCOUTS BOOK OF STORIES 


“And has your business been attended to in your 
absence ?” 

“Nothing to complain of, sir. There’s never very 
much to do of a morning.” 

“That will do, Mr. Wilson. I shall be happy to 
give you an opinion upon the subject in the course 
of a day or two. To-day is Saturday, and I hope that 
by Monday we may come to a conclusion. 

“Well, Watson,” said Holmes, when our visitor had 
left us, “what do you make of it all 

“I make nothing of it,” I answered, frankly. “It 
is a most mysterious business.” 

“As a rule,” said Holmes, “the more bizarre a thing 
is the less mysterious it proves to be. It is your com- 
monplace, featureless crimes which are really puzzling, 
just as a commonplace face is the most difficult to 
identify. But I must be prompt over this matter.” 

“What are you going to do, then?” I asked. 

“To smoke,” he answered. “It is quite a three-pipe 
problem, and I beg that you won’t speak to me for 
fifty minutes.” He curled himself up in his chair, 
with his thin knees drawn up to his hawk-like nose, 
and there he sat with his eyes closed and his black 
clay pipe thrusting out like the bill of some strange 
bird. I had come to the conclusion that he had 
dropped asleep, and indeed was nodding myself, when 
he suddenly sprang out of his chair with the gesture 
of a man who has made up his mind, and put his pipe 
down upon the mantelpiece. 

90 


THE RED-HEADED LEAGUE 


“Sarasate plays at St. James’ Hall this afternoon,” 
he remarked. “What do you think, Watson? Could 
your patients spare you for a few hours?” 

“I have nothing to do to-day. My practice is never 
very absorbing.” 

“Then put on your hat and come. I am going 
through the city first, and we can have some lunch on 
the way. I observe that there is a good deal of Ger- 
man music on the programme, which is rather more 
to my taste than Italian or French. It is introspective, 
and I want to introspect. Come along!” 

We traveled by the Underground as far as Alders- 
gate ; and a short walk took us to Saxe-Coburg Square, 
the scene of the singular story which we had listened 
to in the morning. It was a poky, little, shabby-gen- 
teel place, where four lines of dingy, two-storied brick 
houses looked out into a small railed-in inclosure, 
where a lawn of weedy grass and a few clumps of 
faded laurel bushes made a hard fight against a smoke- 
laden and uncongenial atmosphere. Three gilt balls 
and a brown board with Jabez Wilson in white let- 
ters, upon a corner house, announced the place where 
our red-headed client carried on his business. Sher- 
lock Holmes stopped in front of it with his head on 
one side, and looked it all over, with his eyes shining 
brightly between puckered lids. Then he walked 
slowly up the street, and then down again to the cor- 
ner, still looking keenly at the houses. Finally he re- 
turned to the pawnbroker’s and, having thumped vig- 
9i 


THE BOY SCOUTS BOOK OF STORIES 


orously upon the pavement with his stick two or three 
times, he went up to the door and knocked. It was 
instantly opened by a bright-looking, clean-shaven 
young fellow, who asked him to step in. 

“Thank you/’ said Holmes, “I only wished to ask 
you how you would go from here to the Strand.” 

“Third right, fourth left,” answered the assistant, 
promptly, closing the door. 

“Smart fellow, that,” observed Holmes as we 
walked away. “He is, in my judgment, the fourth 
smartest man in London, and for daring I am not 
sure that he has not a claim to be third. I have 
known something of him before.” 

“Evidently,” said I, “Mr. Wilson’s assistant counts 
for a good deal in this mystery of the Red-headed 
League. I am sure that you inquired your way merely 
in order that you might see him.” 

“Not him.” 

“What then?” 

“The knees of his trousers.” 

“And what did you see?” 

“What I expected to see.” 

“Why did you beat the pavement?” 

“My dear doctor, this is a time for observation, 
not for talk. We are spies in an enemy’s country. 
We know something of Saxe-Coburg Square. Let us 
now explore the parts which lie behind it.” 

The road in which we found ourselves as we turned 
round the corner from the retired Saxe-Coburg 
92 


THE RED-HEADED LEAGUE 

Square presented as great a contrast to it as the front 
of a picture does to the back. It was one of the main 
arteries which convey the traffic of the city to the 
north and west. The roadway was blocked with the 
immense stream of commerce flowing in a double tide 
inward and outward, while the footpaths were black 
with the hurrying swarm of pedestrians. It was dif- 
ficult to realize, as we looked at the line of fine shops 
and stately business premises, that they really abutted 
on the other side upon the faded and stagnant square 
which we had just quitted. 

“Let me see,” said Holmes, standing at the corner, 
and glancing along the line, “I should like just to re- 
member the order of the houses here. It is a hobby 
of mine to have an exact knowledge of London. 
There is Mortimer's, the tobacconist; the little news- 
paper shop, the Coburg branch of the City and 
Suburban Bank, the Vegetarian Restaurant, and Mc- 
Farlane’s carriage-building depot. That carries us 
right on to the other block. And now, doctor, we’ve 
done our work, so it’s time we had some play. A 
sandwich and a cup of coffee, and then off to violin- 
land, where all is sweetness, and delicacy, and har- 
mony, and there are no red-headed clients to vex us 
with their conundrums.” 

My friend was an enthusiastic musician, being him- 
self not only a very capable performer, but a com- 
poser of no ordinary merit. All the afternoon he 
sat in the stalls wrapped in the most perfect happi- 
93 


THE BOY SCOUTS BOOK OF STORIES 


ness, gently waving his long thin fingers in time to 
the music, while his gently smiling face and his lan- 
guid, dreamy eyes were as unlike those of Holmes 
the sleuth-hound, Holmes the relentless, keen-witted, 
ready-handed criminal agent, as it was possible to 
conceive. In his singular character the dual nature 
alternately asserted itself, and his extreme exactness 
and astuteness represented, as I have often thought, 
the reaction against the poetic and contemplative 
mood which occasionally predominated in him. The 
swing of his nature took him from extreme languor 
to devouring energy; and, as I knew well, he was 
never so truly formidable as when, for days on end, 
he had been lounging in his armchair amid his im- 
provisations and his black-letter editions. Then it was 
that the lust of the chase would suddenly come upon 
him, and that his brilliant reasoning power would 
rise to the level of intuition, until those who were un- 
acquainted with his methods would look askance at 
him as on a man whose knowledge was not that of 
other mortals. When I saw him that afternoon so 
enwrapped in the music at St. James’ Hall, I felt that 
an evil time might be coming upon those whom he had 
set himself to hunt down. 

“You want to go home, no doubt, doctor,” he re- 
marked, as we emerged. 

“Yes, it would be as well.” 

“And I have some business to do which will take 

94 


fTHE RED-HEADED LEAGUE 

some hours. This business at Saxe-Coburg Square is 
serious/ 1 

“Why serious ?” 

“A considerable crime is in contemplation. I have 
every reason to believe that we shall be in time to 
stop it. But to-day being Saturday rather complicates 
matters. I shall want your help to-night.” 

“At what time?” 

“Ten will be early enough.” 

“I shall be at Baker Street at ten.” 

“Very well. And, I say, doctor! there may be 
some little danger, so kindly put your army revolver 
in your pocket.” He waved his hand, turned on his 
heel, and disappeared in an instant among the crowd. 

I trust that I am not more dense than my neigh- 
bors, but I was always oppressed with a sense of my 
own stupidity in my dealings with Sherlock Holmes. 
He and I had heard what he had heard, I had seen 
what he had seen, and yet from his words it was evi- 
dent that he saw clearly not only what had happened, 
but what was about to happen, while to me the whole 
business was still confused and grotesque. As I drove 
home to my house in Kensington I thought over it 
all, from the extraordinary stor^ of the red-headed 
copier of the “Encyclopaedia” down to the visit to 
Saxe-Coburg Square, and the ominous words with 
which he had parted from me. What was this noc- 
turnal expedition, and why should I go armed ? 
Where were we going, and what were we to do? I 
95 


THE BOY SCOUTS BOOK OF STORIES 

had the hint from Holmes that this smooth-faced 
pawnbroker’s assistant was a formidable man — a man 
who might play a deep game. I tried to puzzle it out 
but gave it up in despair, and set the matter aside un- 
til night should bring an explanation. 

It was a quarter-past nine when I started from 
home and made my way across the Park, and so 
through Oxford Street to Baker Street. Two han- 
soms were standing at the door, and, as I entered the 
passage, I heard the sound of voices from above. On 
entering his room, I found Holmes in animated con- 
versation with two men, one of whom I recognized as 
Peter Jones, the official police agent; while the other 
was a long, thin, sad-faced man, with a very shiny 
hat and oppressively respectable frock-coat. 

“Ha! our party is complete,” said Holmes, button- 
ing up his pea-jacket, and taking his heavy hunting 
coat from the rack. “Watson, I think you know 
Mr. Jones of Scotland Yard? Let me introduce you 
to Mr. Merryweather, who is to be our companion in 
to-night’s adventure.” 

“We’re hunting in couples again, doctor, you see,” 
said Jones, in his consequential way. “Our friend 
here is a wonderful man for starting a chase. All he 
wants is an old dog to help him do the running 
down.” 

“I hope a wild goose may not prove to be the end of 
our chase,” observed Mr. Merryweather, gloomily. 

“You may place considerable confidence in Mr. 

96 


THE RED-HEADED LEAGUE 


Holmes, sir,” said the police agent, loftily. “He has 
his own little methods, which are, if he won’t mind 
my saying so, just a little too theoretical and fantas- 
tic, but he has the makings of a detective in him. It 
is not too much to say that once or twice, as in that 
business of the Sholto murder and the Agra treas- 
ure, he has been more nearly correct than the official 
force.” 

“Oh, if you say so, Mr. Jones, it is all right!” said 
the stranger, with deference. “Still, I confess that I 
miss my rubber. It is the first Saturday night for 
seven-and-twenty years that I have not had my rub- 
ber.” 

“I think you will find,” said Sherlock Holmes, “that 
you will play for a higher stake to-night than you have 
ever done yet, and that the play will be more excit- 
ing. For you, Mr. Merry weather, the stake will be 
some thirty thousand pounds; and for you, Jones, it 
will be the man upon whom you wish to lay your 
hands.” 

“John Clay, the murderer, thief, smasher, and for- 
ger. He’s a young man, Mr. Merryweather, but he 
is at the head of his profession, and I would rather 
have my bracelets on him than on any criminal in 
London. He’s a remarkable man, is young John 
Clay. His grandfather was a Royal Duke, and he 
himself has been to Eton and Oxford. His brain is 
as cunning as his fingers, and though we meet signs 
of him at every turn, we never know where to find 
97 


THE BOY SCOUTS BOOK OF STORIES 

the man himself. He’ll crack a crib in Scotland one 
week, and be raising money to build an orphanage in 
Cornwall the next. I’ve been on his track for years, 
and have never set eyes on him yet.” 

“I hope that I may have the pleasure of introduc- 
ing you to-night. I’ve had one or two little turns also 
with Mr. John Clay, and I agree with you that he is 
at the head of his profession. It is past ten, however, 
and quite time that we started. If you two will take 
the first hansom, Watson and I will follow in the 
second.” 

Sherlock Holmes was not very communicative dur- 
ing the long drive, and lay back in the cab humming 
the tunes which he had heard in the afternoon. We 
rattled through an endless labyrinth of gas-lit streets 
until we emerged into Farringdon Street. 

“We are close there now,” my friend remarked. 
“This fellow Merryweather is a bank director and 
personally interested in the matter. I thought it as 
well to have Jones with us also. He is not a bad 
fellow, though an absolute imbecile in his profes- 
sion. He has one positive virtue. He is as brave as 
a bulldog, and as tenacious as a lobster if he gets his 
claws upon any one. Here we are, and they are wait- 
ing for us.” 

We had reached the same crowded thoroughfare in 
which we had found ourselves in the morning. Our 
cabs were dismissed, and following the guidance of 
Mr. Merryweather, we passed down a narrow passage, 
98 


THE RED-HEADED LEAGUE 


and through a side door which he opened for us. 
Within there was a small corridor, which ended in a 
very massive iron gate. This also was opened, and 
led down a flight of winding stone steps, which ter- 
minated at another formidable gate. Mr. Merry- 
weather stopped to light a lantern, and then con- 
ducted us down a dark, earth-smelling passage, and 
so, after opening a third door, into a huge vault or 
cellar, which was piled all round with crates and mas- 
sive boxes. 

“You are not very vulnerable from above,” Holmes 
remarked, as he held up the lantern and gazed about 
him. 

“Nor from below,” said Mr. Merry weather, strik- 
ing his stick upon the flags which lined the floor. 
“Why, dear me, it sounds quite hollow !” he remarked, 
looking up in surprise. 

“I must really ask you to be a little more quiet,” 
said Holmes, severely. “You have already imperiled 
the whole success of our expedition. Might I beg 
that you would have the goodness to sit down upon 
one of those boxes, and not to interfere?” 

The solemn Mr. Merryweather perched himself 
upon a crate, with a very injured expression upon his 
face, while Holmes fell upon his knees upon the floor, 
and, with the lantern and a magnifying lens, began 
to examine minutely the cracks between the stones. 
A few seconds sufficed to satisfy him, for he sprang 
to his feet again, and put his glass in his pocket. 

99 


THE BOY SCOUTS BOOK OF STORIES 


“We have at least an hour before us,” he remarked, 
“for they can hardly take any steps until the good 
pawnbroker is safely in bed. Then they will not lose 
a minute, for the sooner they do their work the longer 
time they will have for their escape. We are at 
present, doctor — as no doubt you have divined — in the 
cellar of the city branch of one of the principal Lon- 
don banks. Mr. Merryweather is the chairman of 
directors, and he will explain to you that there are 
reasons why the more daring criminals of London 
should take a considerable interest in this cellar at 
present.” 

“It is our French gold,” whispered the director. 
“We have had several warnings that an attempt might 
be made upon it.” 

“Your French gold?” 

“Yes. We had occasion some months ago to 
strengthen our resources, and borrowed, for that pur- 
pose, thirty thousand napoleons from the Bank of 
France. It has become known that we have never had 
occasion to unpack the money, and that it is still lying 
in our cellar. The crate upon which I sit contains two 
thousand napoleons packed between layers of lead 
foil. Our reserve of bullion is much larger at present 
than is usually kept in a single branch office, and the 
directors have had misgivings upon the subject.” 

“Which were very well justified,” observed Holmes. 
“And now it is time that we arranged our little plans. 
I expect that within an hour matters will come to a 


ioo 


THE RED-HEADED LEAGUE 


head. In the meantime, Mr. Merryweather, we must 
put the screen over that dark lantern.” 

“And sit in the dark ?” 

“I am afraid so. I had brought a pack of cards in 
my pocket, and I thought that, as we were a partie 
carree, you might have your rubber after all. But I 
see that the enemy’s preparations have gone so far 
that we cannot risk the presence of a light. And, first 
of all, we must choose our positions. These are dar- 
ing men, and, though we shall take them at a dis- 
advantage, they may do us some harm, unless we are 
careful. I shall stand behind this crate, and do you 
conceal yourself behind those. Then, when I flash 
a light upon them, close in swiftly. If they fire, Wat- 
son, have no compunction about shooting them down.” 

I placed my revolver, cocked, upon the top of the 
wooden case behind which I crouched. Holmes shot 
the slide across the front of his lantern, and left us 
in pitch darkness — such an absolute darkness as I have 
never before experienced. The smell of hot metal 
remained to assure us that the light was still there, 
ready to flash out at a moment’s notice. To me, with 
my nerves worked up to a pitch of expectancy, there 
was something depressing and subduing in the sudden 
gloom, and in the cold, dank air of the vault. 

“They have but one retreat,” whispered Holmes. 
“That is back through the house into Saxe-Coburg 
Square. I hope that you have done what I asked you, 
Jones?” 

IOI 


THE BOY SCOUTS BOOK OF STORIES 


“I have an inspector and two officers waiting at the 
front door. ,, 

“Then we have stopped all the holes. And now we 
must be silent and wait.” 

What a time it seemed! From comparing notes 
afterwards, it was but an hour and a quarter, yet it 
appeared to me that the night must have almost gone, 
and the dawn be breaking above us. My limbs were 
weary and stiff, for I feared to change my position, 
yet my nerves were worked up to the highest pitch 
of tension, and my hearing was so acute that I could 
not only hear the gentle breathing of my companions, 
but I could distinguish the deeper, heavier inbreath of 
the bulky Jones from the thin, sighing note of the 
bank director. From my position I could look over 
the case in the direction of the floor. Suddenly my 
eyes caught the glint of a light. 

At first it was but a lurid spark upon the stone 
pavement. Then it lengthened out until it became a 
yellow line, and then, without any warning or sound, 
a gash seemed to open and a hand appeared, a white, 
almost womanly hand, which felt about in the center 
of the little area of light. For a minute or more the 
hand, with its writhing fingers, protruded out of the 
floor. Then it was withdrawn as suddenly as it ap- 
peared, and all was dark again save the single lurid 
spark, which marked a chink between the stones. 

Its disappearance, however, was but momentary. 
With a rending, tearing sound, one of the broad white 
102 


THE RED-HEADED LEAGUE 


stones turned over upon its side, and left a square, 
gaping hole, through which streamed the light of a 
lantern. Over the edge there peeped a clean-cut, boy- 
ish face, which looked keenly about it, and then, with 
a hand on either side of the aperture, drew itself 
shoulder-high and waist-high, until one knee rested 
upon the edge. In another instant he stood at the side 
of the hole, and was hauling after him a companion, 
lithe and small like himself, with a pale face and a 
shock of very red hair. 

"It's all clear,” he whispered. “Have you the chisel 
and the bags? Great Scott! Jump, Archie, jump, 
and I’ll swing for it!” 

Sherlock Holmes had sprung out and seized the 
intruder by the collar. The other dived down the 
hole, and I heard the sound of rending cloth as Jones 
clutched at his skirts. The light flashed upon the 
barrel of a revolver, but Holmes’ hunting crop came 
down on the man’s wrist, and the pistol clinked upon 
the stone floor. 

“It’s no use, John Clay,” said Holmes, blandly, “you 
have no chance at all.” 

“So I see,” the other answered, with the utmost 
coolness. “I fancy that my pal is all right, though I 
see you have got his coat-tails.” 

“There are three men waiting for him at the door,” 
said Holmes. 

“Oh, indeed. You seem to have done the thing very 
completely. I must compliment you.” 

103 


THE BOY SCOUTS BOOK OF STORIES 


“And I you/’ Holmes answered. “Your red-headed 
idea was very new and effective.” 

“You’ll see your pal again presently,” said Jones. 
“He’s quicker at climbing down holes than I am. 
Just hold out while I fix the derbies.” 

“I beg that you will not touch me with your filthy 
hands,” remarked our prisoner, as the handcuffs clat- 
tered upon his wrists. “You may not be aware that I 
have royal blood in my veins. Have the goodness 
also, when you address me, always to say ‘sir’ and 
‘please.’ ” 

“All right,” said Jones, with a stare and a snigger. 
“Well, would you please, sir, march upstairs where 
we can get a cab to carry your highness to the police 
station.” 

“That is better,” said John Clay, serenely. He 
made a sweeping bow to the three of us, and walked 
quietly off in the custody of the detective. 

“Really, Mr. Holmes,” said Mr. Merryweather, as 
we followed them from the cellar, “I do not know how 
the bank can thank you or repay you. There is no 
doubt that you have detected and defeated in the most 
complete manner one of the most determined attempts 
at bank robbery that have ever come within my ex- 
perience.” 

“I have had one or two little scores of my own to 
settle with Mr. John Clay,” said Holmes. “I have 
been at some small expense over this matter, which 
I shall expect the bank to refund, but beyond that I am 
104 


THE RED-HEADED LEAGUE 


amply repaid by having had an experience which is in 
many ways unique, and by hearing the very remark- 
able narrative of the Red-headed League.” 

“You see, Watson,” he explained, in the early hours 
of the morning, as we sat over a glass of whisky and 
soda in Baker Street, “it was perfectly obvious from 
the first that the only possible object of this rather 
fantastic business of the advertisement of the League, 
and the copying of the ‘Encyclopaedia/ must be to get 
this not over-bright pawnbroker out of the way for a 
number of hours every day. It was a curious way of 
managing it, but really it would be difficult to suggest 
a better. The method was no doubt suggested to 
Clay’s ingenious mind by the color of his accomplice’s 
hair. The four pounds a week was a lure which must 
draw him, and what was it to them, who were playing 
for thousands? They put in the advertisement, one 
rogue has the temporary office, the other rogue incites 
the man to apply for it, and together they manage to 
secure his absence every morning in the week. From 
the time that I heard of the assistant having come for 
half wages, it was obvious to me that he had some 
strong motive for securing the situation.” 

“But how could you guess what the motive was?” 

“Had there been women in the house, I should have 
suspected a mere vulgar intrigue. That, however, was 
out of the question. The man’s business was a small 
one, and there was nothing in his house which could 
105 


THE BOY SCOUTS BOOK OF STORIES 


account for such elaborate preparations, and such an 
expenditure as they were at. It must then be some- 
thing out of the house. What could it be? I thought 
of the assistant’s fondness for photography, and his 
trick of vanishing into the cellar. The cellar? There 
was the end of this tangled clew. Then I made in- 
quiries as to this mysterious assistant, and found that 
I had to deal with one of the coolest and most daring 
criminals in London. He was doing something in the 
cellar — something which took many hours a day for 
months on end. What could it be, once more? I 
could think of nothing save that he was running a 
tunnel to some other building. 

“So far I had got when we went to visit the scene 
of action. I surprised you by beating upon the pave- 
ment with my stick. I was ascertaining whether the 
cellar stretched out in front or behind. It was not in 
front Then I rang the bell, and, as I hoped, the 
assistant answered it. We have had some skirmishes, 
but we had never set eyes upon each other before. 
I hardly looked at his face. His knees were what I 
wished to see. You must yourself have remarked 
how worn, wrinkled, and stained they were. They 
spoke of those hours of burrowing. The only re- 
maining point was what they were burrowing for. I 
walked round the corner, saw that che City and Sub- 
urban Bank abutted on our friend’s premises, and felt 
that I had solved my problem. When you drove home 
after the concert I called upon Scotland Yard, and 
106 


THE RED-HEADED LEAGUE 


upon the chairman of the bank directors, with the 
result that you have seen. ,, 

“And how could you tell that they would make 
their attempt to-night?” I asked. 

“Well, when they closed their League offices that 
was a sign that they cared no longer about Mr. Jabez 
Wilson’s presence; in other words, that they had com- 
pleted their tunnel. But it was essential that they 
should use it soon, as it might be discovered, or the 
bullion might be removed. Saturday would suit them 
better than any other day, as it would give them two 
days for their escape. For all these reasons I expected 
them to come to-night.” 

“You reasoned it out beautifully,” I exclaimed, in 
unfeigned admiration. “It is so long a chain, and yet 
every link rings true.” 

“It saved me from ennui,” he answered, yawning. 
“Alas ! I already feel it closing in upon me. My life 
is spent in one long effort to escape from the common- 
places of existence. These little problems help me to 
do so.” 

“And you are a benefactor of the race,” said I. He 
shrugged his shoulders. “Well, perhaps, after all, it 
is of some little use,” he remarked. 



V. — The Ransom of Red Chief* 

By O. Henry 

I T looked like a good thing : but wait till I tell you. 
We were down South, in Alabama — Bill Driscoll 
and myself — when this kidnaping idea struck 
us. It was, as Bill afterward expressed it, “during 
a moment of temporary mental apparition” ; but we 
didn’t find that out till later. 

There was a town down there, as flat as a flannel- 
cake, and called Summit, of course. It contained 
inhabitants of as undeleter ious and self-satisfied a 
class of peasantry as ever clustered around a Maypole. 

Bill and me had a joint capital of about six hundred 
dollars, and we needed just two thousand dollars more 
to pull off a fraudulent town-lot scheme in Western 
Illinois with. We talked it over on the front steps of 
the hotel. Philoprogenitiveness, says we, is strong 

* Reprinted by special permission from “Whirligigs.” Copy- 
right, 1910, by Doubleday, Page and Company. 

I08 


THE RANSOM OF RED CHIEF 


in semi-rural communities; therefore, and for other 
reasons, a kidnaping project ought to do better there 
than in the radius of newspapers that send reporters 
out in plain clothes to stir up talk about such things. 
We knew that Summit couldn’t get after us with any- 
thing stronger than constables and, maybe, some 
lackadaisical bloodhounds and a diatribe or two in 
the Weekly Farmers' Budget. So, it looked good. 

We selected for our victim the only child of a 
prominent citizen named Ebenezer Dorset. The 
father was respectable and tight, a mortgage fancier 
and a stern, upright collection-plate passer and fore- 
closer. The kid was a boy of ten, with bas-relief 
freckles, and hair the color of the cover of the maga- 
zine you buy at the news-stand when you want to catch 
a train. Bill and me figured that Ebenezer would melt 
down for a ransom of two thousand dollars to a cent. 
But wait till I tell you. 

About two miles from Summit was a little mountain, 
covered with a dense cedar brake. On the rear elva- 
tion of this mountain was a cave. There we stored 
provisions. 

One evening after sundown, we drove in a buggy 
past old Dorset’s house. The kid was in the street, 
throwing rocks at a kitten on the opposite fence. 

“Hey, little boy !” says Bill, “would you like to have 
a bag of candy and a nice ride?” 

The boy catches Bill neatly in the eye with a piece 
of brick. 


109 


THE BOY SCOUTS BOOK OF STORIES 

'That will cost the old man an extra five hundred 
dollars,” says Bill, climbing over the wheel. 

That boy put up a fight like a welter-weight cinna- 
mon bear; but, at last, we got him down in the bot- 
tom of the buggy and drove away. We took him up 
to the cave, and I hitched the horse in the cedar brake. 
After dark I drove the buggy to the little village, 
three miles away, where we had hired it, and walked 
back to the mountain. 

Bill was pasting court-plaster over the scratches and 
bruises on his features. There was a fire burning be- 
hind the big rock at the entrance of the cave, and the 
boy was watching a pot of boiling coffee, with two 
buzzard tail-feathers stuck in his red hair. He points 
a stick at me when I come up, and says : 

"Ha ! cursed paleface, do you dare to enter the camp 
of Red Chief, the terror of the plains?” 

"He’s all right now,” says Bill, rolling up his 
trousers and examining some bruises on his shins. 
"We’re playing Indian. We’re making Buffalo Bill’s 
show look like magic-lantern views of Palestine in 
the town hall. I’m Old Hank, the Trapper, Red 
Chief’s captive, and I’m to be scalped at daybreak. 
By Geronimo! that kid can kick hard.” 

Yes, sir, that boy seemed to be having the time of 
his life. The fun of camping out in a cave had made 
him forget that he was a captive himself. He im- 
mediately christened me Snake-eye, the Spy, and an- 
nounced that, when his braves returned from the war- 


no 


THE RANSOM OF RED CHIEF 


path, I was to be broiled at the stake at the rising of 
the sun. 

Then we had supper; and he filled his mouth full of 
bacon and bread and gravy, and began to talk. He 
made a during-dinner speech something like this: 

“I like this fine. I never camped out before; but 
I had a pet ’possum once, and I was nine last birth- 
day. I hate to go to school. Rats ate up sixteen of 
Jimmy Talbot’s aunt’s speckled hen’s eggs. Are there 
any real Indians in these woods ? I want some more 
gravy. Does the trees moving make the wind blow? 
We had five puppies. What makes your nose so red, 
Hank ? My father has lots of money. Are the stars 
hot? I whipped Ed Walker twice, Saturday. I don’t 
like girls. You dassent catch toads unless with a 
string. Do oxen make any noise ? Why are oranges 
round? Have you got beds to sleep on in this cave? 
Amos Murray has got six toes. A parrot can talk, but 
a monkey or a fish can’t. How many does it take to 
make twelve ?” 

Every few minutes he would remember that he was 
a pesky redskin, and pick up his stick rifle and tiptoe 
to the mouth of the cave to rubber for the scouts of 
the hated paleface. Now and then he would let out 
a war-whoop that made Old Hank the Trapper shiver. 
That boy had Bill terrorized from the start. 

“Red Chief,” says I to the kid, “would you like to 
go home?” 

“Aw, what for?” says he. “I don’t have any fun 
hi 


THE BOY SCOUTS BOOK OF STORIES 


at home. I hate to go to school. I like to camp out. 
You won’t take me back home again, Snake-eye, will 
you?” 

“Not right away,” says I. “We’ll stay here in the 
cave a while.” 

“All right!” says he. “That’ll be fine. I never 
had such fun in all my life.” 

We went to bed about eleven o’clock. We spread 
down some wide blankets and quilts and put Red 
Chief between us. We weren’t afraid he’d run away. 
He kept us awake for three hours, jumping up and 
reaching for his rifle and screeching: “Hist! pard,” 
in mine and Bill’s ears, as the fancied crackle of a 
twig or the rustle of a leaf revealed to his young 
imagination the stealthy approach of the outlaw band- 
At last, I fell into a troubled sleep, and dreamed that 
I had been kidnaped and chained to a tree by a 
ferocious pirate with red hair. 

Just at daybreak, I was awakened by a series of 
awful screams from Bill. They weren’t yells, or 
howls, or shouts, or whoops, or yawps, such as you’d 
expect from a manly set of vocal organs — they were 
simply indecent, terrifying, humiliating screams, such 
as women emit when they see ghosts or caterpillars. 
It’s an awful thing to hear a strong, desperate, fat 
man scream incontinently in a cave at daybreak. 

I jumped up to see what the matter was. Red Chief 
was sitting on Bill’s chest, with one hand twined in 
Bill’s hair. In the other he had the sharp case-knife 
1 12 


THE RANSOM OF RED CHIEF 


we used for slicing bacon; and he was industriously 
and realistically trying to take Bill’s scalp, according 
to the sentence that had been pronounced upon him the 
evening before. 

I got the knife away from the kid and made him lie 
down again. But, from that moment, Bill’s spirit was 
broken. He laid down on his side of the bed, but he 
never closed an eye again in sleep as long as that boy 
was with us. I dozed off for a while, but along to- 
ward sun-up I remembered that Red Chief had said I 
was to be burned at the stake at the rising of the sun. 
I wasn’t nervous or afraid; but I sat up and lit my 
pipe and leaned against a rock. 

“What you getting up so soon for, Sam?” asked 
Bill. 

“Me?” says I. “Oh, I got a kind of a pain in my 
shoulder. I thought sitting up would rest it.” 

“You’re a liar!” says Bill. “You’re afraid. You 
was to be burned at sunrise, and you was afraid he’d 
do it. And he would, too, if he could find a match. 
Ain’t it awful, Sam ? Do you think anybody will pay 
out money to get a little imp like that back home?” 

“Sure,” said I. “A rowdy kid like that is just the 
kind that parents dote on. Now, you and the Chief 
get up and cook breakfast, while I go up on the top of 
this mountain and reconnoiter.” 

I went up on the peak of the little mountain and 
ran my eye over the contiguous vicinity. Over 
toward Summit I expected to see the sturdy yea- 

113 


THE BOY SCOUTS BOOK OF STORIES 


manry of the village armed with scythes and pitch- 
forks beating the countryside for the dastardly kid- 
napers. But what I saw was a peaceful landscape 
dotted with one man ploughing with a dun mule. 
Nobody was dragging the creek; no couriers dashed 
hither and yon, bringing tidings of no news to the dis- 
tracted parents. There was a sylvan attitude of 
somnolent sleepiness pervading that section of the ex- 
ternal outward surface of Alabama that lay exposed to 
my view. “Perhaps,” says I to myself, “it has not yet 
been discovered that the wolves have borne away the 
tender lambkin from the fold. Heaven help the 
wolves !” says I, and I went down the mountain to 
breakfast. 

When I got to the cave I found Bill backed up 
against the side of it, breathing hard, and the boy 
threatening to smash him with a rock half as big as 
a cocoanut. 

“He put a red-hot boiled potato down my back,” ex- 
plained Bill, “and then mashed it with his foot; and 
I boxed his ears. Have you got a gun about you, 
Sam?” 

I took the rock away from the boy and kind of 
patched up the argument. “I’ll fix you,” says the kid 
to Bill. “No man ever yet struck the Red Chief but 
what he got paid for it. You better beware!” 

After breakfast the kid takes a piece of leather with 
strings wrapped around it out of his pocket and goes 
outside the cave unwinding it. 

1 14 


THE RANSOM OF RED CHIEF 


“What’s he up to now?” says Bill anxiously. “You 
don’t think he’ll run away, do you, Sam?” 

“No fear of it,” says I. “He don’t seem to be 
much of a home body. But we’ve got to fix up some 
plan about the ransom. There don’t seem to be much 
excitement around Summit on account of his disap- 
pearance; but maybe they haven’t realized yet that 
he’s gone. His folks may think he’s spending the 
night with Aunt Jane or one of the neighbors. Any- 
how, he’ll be missed to-day. To-night we must get a 
message to his father demanding the two thousand 
dollars for his return.” 

Just then we heard a kind of war-whoop, such as 
David might have emitted when he knocked out the 
champion Goliath. It was a sling that Red Chief had 
pulled out of his pocket, and he was whirling it around 
his head. 

I dodged, and heard a heavy thud and a kind of a 
sigh from Bill, like a horse gives out when you take 
his saddle off. A niggerhead rock the size of an egg 
had caught Bill just behind his left ear. He loosened 
himself all over and fell in the fire across the frying 
pan of hot water for washing the dishes. I dragged 
him out and poured cold water on his head for half 
an hour. 

By and by, Bill sits up and feels behind his ear and 
says: “Sam, do you know who my favorite Biblical 
character is?” 


“5 


THE BOY SCOUTS BOOK OF STORIES 


“Take it easy,” says I. “You’ll come to your senses 
presently.” 

“King Herod,” says he. “You won’t go away and 
leave me here alone, will you, Sam?” 

I went out and caught that boy and shook him until 
his freckles rattled. 

“If you don’t behave,” says I, “I’ll take you straight 
home. Now, are you going to be good, or not?” 

“I was only funning,” says he sullenly. “I didn’t 
mean to hurt Old Hank. But what did he hit me for? 
I’ll behave, Snake-eye, if you won’t send me home, 
and if you’ll let me play the Black Scout to-day.” 

“I don’t know the game,” says I. “That’s for you 
and Mr. Bill to decide. He’s your playmate for the 
day. I’m going away for a while, on business. Now, 
you come in and make friends with him and say you 
are sorry for hurting him, or home you go, at once.” 

I made him and Bill shake hands, and then I took 
Bill aside and told him I was going to Poplar Cove, 
a little village three miles from the cave, and find out 
what I could about how the kidnaping had been re- 
garded in Summit. Also, I thought it best to send a 
peremptory letter to old man Dorset that day, demand- 
ing the ransom and dictating how it should be paid. 

“You know, Sam,” says Bill, “I’ve stood by you 
without batting an eye in earthquakes, fire, and flood 
— in poker games, dynamite outrages, police raids, 
train robberies, and cyclones. I never lost my nerve 
yet till we kidnaped that two-legged skyrocket of a 
ii 6 


THE RANSOM OF RED CHIEF 

kid. He’s got me going. You won’t leave me long 
with him, will you, Sam?” 

“I’ll be back some time this afternoon,” says I. 
“You must keep the boy amused and quiet till I re- 
turn. And now we’ll write the letter to old Dorset.” 

Bill and I got paper and pencil and worked on the 
letter while Red Chief, with a blanket wrapped around 
him, strutted up and down, guarding the mouth of the 
cave. Bill begged me tearfully to make the ransom 
fifteen hundred dollars instead of two thousand. “I 
ain’t attempting,” says he, “to decry the celebrated 
moral aspect of parental affection, but we’re dealing 
with humans, and it ain’t human for anybody to give 
up two thousand dollars for that forty-pound chunk 
of freckled wildcat. I’m willing to take a chance at 
fifteen hundred dollars. You can charge the differ- 
ence up to me.” 

So, to relieve Bill, I acceded, and we collaborated 
a letter that ran this way : 

“Ebenezer Dorset , Esq.: 

“We have your boy concealed in a place far from Summit. 
It is useless for you or the most skillful detectives to attempt 
to find him. Absolutely, the only terms on which you can 
have him restored to you are these: We demand fifteen 
hundred dollars in large bills for his return; the money to 
be left at midnight to-night at the same spot and in the same 
box as your reply — as hereinafter described. If you agree 
to these terms, send your answer in writing by a solitary 
messenger to-night at half-past eight o’clock. After crossing 
Owl Creek, on the road to Poplar Cove, there are three large 

ii 7 


THE BOY SCOUTS BOOK OF STORIES 

trees about a hundred yards apart, close to the fence of the 
wheat field on the right-hand side. At the bottom of the 
fence-post, opposite the third tree, will be found a small 
paste-board box. 

‘The messenger will place the answer in this box and 
return immediately to Summit. 

“If you attempt any treachery or fail to comply with our 
demand as stated, you will never see your boy again. 

“If you pay the money as demanded, he will be returned 
to you safe and well within three hours. These terms are 
final, and if you do not accede to them no further communi- 
cation will be attempted. 

“Two Desperate Men.” 

I addressed this letter to Dorset, and put it in’ my 
pocket. As I was about to start, the kid comes up to 
me and says: 

“Aw, Snake-eye, you said I could play the Black 
Scout while you was gone.” 

“Play it, of course, 1 ” says I. “Mr. Bill will play 
with you. What kind of a game is it?” 

“Pm the Black Scout,” says Red Chief, “and I 
have to ride to the stockade to warn the settlers that 
the Indians are coming. Pm tired of playing Indian 
myself. I want to be the Black Scout.” 

“All right,” says I. “It sounds harmless to me. 
I guess Mr. Bill will help you foil the pesky savages.” 

“What am I to do?” asks Bill, looking at the kid 
suspiciously. 

“You are the hoss,” says Black Scout. “Get down 
on your hands and knees. How can I ride to the 
stockade without a hoss?” 

118 


THE RANSOM OF RED CHIEF 


“You’d better keep him interested,” said I, “till we 
get the scheme going. Loosen up.” 

Bill gets down on his all fours, and a look comes in 
his eye like a rabbit’s when you catch it in a trap. 

“How far is it to the stockade, kid?” he asks, in a 
husky manner of voice. 

“Ninety miles,” says the Black Scout. “And you 
have to hump yourself to get there on time. Whoa, 
now !” 

The Black Scout jumps on Bill’s back and digs his 
heels in his side. 

“For Heaven’s sake,” says Bill, “hurry back, Sam, 
as soon as you can. I wish we hadn’t made the ran- 
som more than a thousand. Say, you quit kicking 
me or I’ll get up and warm you good.” 

I walked over to Poplar Cove and sat around the 
post-office and store, talking with the chawbacons that 
came in to trade. One whiskerando says that he hears 
Summit is all upset on account of Elder Ebenezer Dor- 
set’s boy having been lost or stolen. That was all I 
wanted to know. I bought some smoking tobacco, 
referred casually to the price of black-eyed peas, 
posted my letter surreptitiously, and came away. The 
postmaster said the mail-carrier would come by in an 
hour to take the mail on to Summit. 

When I got back to the cave Bill and the boy were 
not to be found. I explored the vicinity of the cave, 
and risked a yodel or two, but there was no response. 

119 


THE BOY SCOUTS BOOK OP STORIES 


So I lighted my pipe and sat down on a mossy bank 
to await developments. 

In about half an hour I heard the bushes rustle, 
and Bill wabbled out into the little glade in front of 
the cave. Behind him vras the kid, stepping softly 
like a scout, with a broad grin on his face. Bill 
stopped, took off his hat, and wiped his face with a 
red handkerchief. The kid stopped about eight feet 
behind him. 

“Sam,” says Bill, “I suppose you’ll think I’m a 
renegade, but I couldn’t help it. I’m a grown person 
with masculine proclivities and habits of self-defense, 
but there is a time when all systems of egotism and 
predominance fail. The boy is gone. I have sent 
him home. All is off. There was martyrs in old 
times,” goes on Bill, “that suffered death rather than 
give up the particular graft they enjoyed. None of 
’em ever was subjugated to such supernatural tortures 
as I have been. I tried to be faithful to our articles 
of depredation ; but there came a limit.” 

“What’s the trouble, Bill?” I asks him. 

“I was rode,” says Bill, “the ninety miles to the 
stockade, not barring an inch. Then, when the settlers 
was rescued, I was given oats. Sand ain’t a palatable 
substitute. And then, for an hour I had to try to 
explain to him why there was nothin’ in holes, how a 
road can run both ways, and what makes the grass 
green. I tell you, Sam, a human can only stand so 
much. I takes him by the neck of his clothes and 


120 



THE BLACK SCOUT JUMPS ON BILL’S BACK AND DIGS HIS HEELS IN HIS SIDE 


-58 








































































THE RANSOM OF RED CHIEF 


drags him down the mountain. On the way he kicks 
my legs black-and-blue from the knees down; and 
I’ve got to have two or three bites on my thumb and 
hand cauterized. 

“But he’s gone” — continues Bill — “gone home. I 
showed him the road to Summit and kicked him about 
eight feet nearer there at one kick. I’m sorry we lose 
the ransom; but it was either that or Bill Driscoll to 
the madhouse.” 

Bill is puffing and blowing, but there is a look of 
ineffable peace and growing content on his rose-pink 
features. 

“Bill,” says I, “there isn’t any heart disease in your 
family, is there?” 

“No,” says Bill, “nothing chronic except malaria 
and accidents. Why?” 

“Then you might turn around,” says I, “and have 
a look behind you.” 

Bill turns and sees the boy, and loses his complexion 
and sits down plump on the ground and begins to pluck 
aimlessly at grass and little sticks. For an hour I was 
afraid for his mind. And then I told him that my 
scheme was to put the whole job through immediately 
and that we would get the ransom and be off with it by 
midnight if old Dorset fell in with our proposition. 
So Bill braced up enough to give the kid a weak sort 
of a smile and a promise to play the Russian in a 
Japanese war with him as soon as he felt a little 
better. 

121 


THE BOY SCOUTS BOOK OF STORIES 


1 had a scheme for collecting that ransom without 
danger of being caught by counterplots that ought to 
commend itself to professional kidnapers. The tree 
under which the answer was to be left — and the money 
later on — was close to the road fence with big, bare 
fields on all sides. If a gang of constables should be 
watching for any one to come for the note, they could 
see him a long way off crossing the fields or in the 
road. But no, siree ! At half-past eight I was up in 
that tree as well hidden as a tree toad, waiting for the 
messenger to arrive. 

Exactly on time, a half-grown boy rides up the 
road on a bicycle, locates the pasteboard box at the 
foot of the fence-post, slips a folded piece of paper 
into it, and pedals away again back toward Summit. 

I waited an hour and then concluded the thing was 
square. I slid down the tree, got the note, slipped 
along the fence till I struck the woods, and was back 
at the cave in another half an hour. I opened the 
note, got near the lantern, and read it to Bill. It 
was written with a pen in a crabbed hand, and the 
sum and substance of it was this : 

“ Two Desperate Men. 

“Gentlemen: I received your letter to-day by post, in re- 
gard to the ransom you ask for the return of my son. I 
think you are a little high in your demands, and I hereby 
make you a counter-proposition, which I am inclined to be- 
lieve you will accept. You bring Johnny home and pay me 
two hundred and fifty dollars in cash, and I agree to take 
him off your hands. You had better come at night, for the 

122 


THE RANSOM OF RED CHIEF 


neighbors believe he is lost, and I couldn’t be responsible for 
what they would do to anybody they saw bringing him back. 

“Very respectfully, 

“Ebenezer Dorset/’ 

“Great pirates of Penzance!” says I; “of all the 
impudent ” 

But I glanced at Bill, and hesitated. He had the 
most appealing look in his eyes I ever saw on the face 
of a dumb or a talking brute. 

“Sam,” says he, “what’s two hundred and fifty 
dollars, after all? We’ve got the money. One more 
night of this kid will send me to a bed in Bedlam. 
Besides being a thorough gentleman, I think Mr. Dor- 
set is a spendthrift for making us such a liberal offer. 
You ain’t going to let the chance go, are you?” 

“Tell you the truth, Bill,” says I, “this little he ewe 
lamb has somewhat got on my nerves too. We’ll 
take him home, pay the ransom, and make our get- 
away.” 

We took him home that night. We got him to go 
by telling him that his father had bought a silver- 
mounted rifle and a pair of moccasins for him, and we 
were going to hunt bears the next day. 

It was just twelve o’clock when we knocked at 
Ebenezer ’s front door. Just at the moment when I 
should have been abstracting the fifteen hundred dol- 
lars from the box under the tree, according to the 
original proposition, Bill was counting out two hun- 
dred and fifty dollars into Dorset’s hand. 

123 


THE BOY SCOUTS BOOK OF STORIES 


When the kid found out we were going to leave 
him at home he started up a howl like a calliope and 
fastened himself as tight as a leech to Bill’s leg. His 
father peeled him away gradually, like a porous 
plaster. 

“How long can you hold him !” asks Bill. 

“I’m not as strong as I used to be,” says old Dorset, 
“but I think I can promise you ten minutes.” 

“Enough,” says Bill. “In ten minutes I shall cross 
the Central, Southern, and Middle Western States, 
and be legging it trippingly for the Canadian border.” 

And, as dark as it was, and as fat as Bill was, and 
as good a runner as I am, he was a good mile and a 
half out of Summit before I could catch up with him. 



VI* — The Honk-Honk Breed* 

By Stewart Edward White 

I T was Sunday at the ranch. For a wonder the 
weather had been favorable; the windmills were 
all working, the bogs had dried up, the beef had 
lasted over, the remuda had not strayed — in short, 
there was nothing to do. Sang had given us a baked 
bread-pudding with raisins in it. We filled it in — a 
wash-basin full of it — on top of a few incidental 
pounds of chile con , baked beans, soda biscuits, “air- 
tight,” and other delicacies. Then we adjourned 
with our pipes to the shady side of the blacksmith’s 
shop where we could watch the ravens on top the adobe 
wall of the corral. Somebody told a story about 
ravens. This led to road-runners. This suggested 
rattlesnakes. They started Windy Bill. 

“Speakin’ of snakes,” said Windy, “I mind when 
they catched the great-granddaddy of all the bull- 

* Reprinted by special permission from “Arizona Nights.” 
Copyright, 1907, by Doubleday, Page and Company. 

125 


THE BOY SCOUTS BOOK OF STORIES 

snakes up at Lead in the Black Hills. I was only a 
kid then. This wasn't no such tur’ble long a snake, 
but he was more’n a foot thick. Looked just like a 
sahuaro stalk. Man name of Terwilliger Smith 
catched it. He named this yere bull-snake Clarence, 
and got it so plumb gentle it followed him everywhere. 
One day old P. T. Bamum come along and wanted to 
buy this Clarence snake — offered Terwilliger a thou- 
sand cold — but Smith wouldn’t part with the snake 
nohow. So finally they fixed up a deal so Smith could 
go along with the show. They shoved Clarence in a 
box in the baggage car, but after a while Mr. Snake 
gets so lonesome he gnaws out and starts to crawl 
back to find his master. Just as he is half-way be- 
tween the baggage car and the smoker, the couplin’ 
give way — right on that heavy grade between Custer 
and Rocky Point. Well, sir, Clarence wound his head 
’round one brake wheel and his tail around the other, 
and held that train together to the bottom of the grade. 
But it stretched him twenty-eight feet and they had to 
advertise him as a boa-constrictor.” 

Windy Bill’s history of the faithful bull-snake 
aroused to reminiscence the grizzled stranger, who 
thereupon held forth as follows: 

Wall, I’ve see things and I’ve heerd things, some of 
them ornery, and some you’d love to believe, they 
was that gorgeous and improbable. Nat’ral history 
was always my hobby and sportin’ events my special 
pleasure— and this yarn of Windy’s reminds me of the 
126 


THE HONK-HONK BREED 


only chanst I ever had to ring in business and pleasure 
and hobby all in one grand merry-go-round of joy. It 
come about like this : 

One day, a few year back, I was siftin' on the beach 
at Santa Barbara watchin’ the sky stay up, and won- 
derin' what to do with my year's wages, when a little 
squinch-eye round-face with big bow spectacles came 
and plumped down beside me. 

“Did you ever stop to think," says he, shovin' back 
his hat, “that if the horse-power delivered by them 
waves on this beach in one single hour could be con- 
centrated behind washin' machines, it would be enough 
to wash all the shirts for a city of four hundred and 
fifty-one thousand one hundred and thirty-six people?" 

“Can’t say I ever did," says I, squintin’ at him side- 
ways. 

“Fact," says he, “and did it ever occur to you that 
if all the food a man eats in the course of a natural 
life could be gathered together at one time, it would 
fill a wagon-train twelve miles long?" 

“You make me hungry," says I. 

“And ain’t it interestin' to reflect," he goes on, 
“that if all the finger-nail parin’s of the human race 
for one year was to be collected and subjected to 
hydraulic pressure it would equal in size the pyramid 
of Cheops?" 

“Look here," says I. sittin' up, “did you ever pause 
to excogitate that if all the hot air you is dispensin’ 
was to be collected together it would fill a balloon big 
1 27 


THE BOY SCOUTS BOOK OF STORIES 


enough to waft you and me over that Bully vard of 
Palms to yonder gin mill on the corner ?” 

He didn’t say nothin’ to that — just yanked me to my 
feet, faced me towards the gin mill above mentioned, 
and exerted considerable pressure on my arm in urgin’ 
of me forward. 

“You ain’t so much of a dreamer, after all,” thinks 
I. “In important matters you are plumb decisive.” 

We sat down at little tables, and my friend ordered 
a beer and a chicken sandwich. 

“Chickens,” says he, gazin’ at the sandwich, “is a 
dollar apiece in this country, and plumb scarce. Did 
you ever pause to ponder over the returns chickens 
would give on a small investment ? Say you start with 
ten hens. Each hatches out thirteen aigs, of which 
allow a loss of say six for childish accidents. At the 
end of two years that flock has increased to six 
hundred and twenty. At the end of the third 


He had the medicine tongue! Ten days later him 
and me was occupy in’ of an old ranch fifty mile from 
anywhere. When they run stage-coaches this joint 
used to be a road-house. The outlook was on about 
a thousand little brown foothills. A road two miles 
four rods two foot eleven inches in sight run by in 
front of us. It come over one foothill and disap- 
peared over another. I know just how long it was, 
for later in the game I measured it. 

Out back was about a hundred little wire chicken 
128 


THE HONK-HONK BREED 


corrals filled with chickens. We had two kinds. That 
was the doin’s of Tuscarora. My pardner called him- 
self Tuscarora Maxillary. I asked him once if that 
was his real name. 

“It’s the realest little old name you ever heerd tell 
of,” says he. “I know, for I made it myself — liked 
the sound of her. Parents ain’t got no rights to 
name their children. Parents don’t have to be called 
them names.” 

Well, these chickens, as I said, was of two kinds. 
The first was these low-set, heavy-weight proposi- 
tions with feathers on their laigs, and not much laigs 
at that, called Cochin Chinys. The other was a tall 
ridiculous outfit made up entire of bulgin’ breast and 
gangle laigs. They stood about two foot and a half 
tall, and when they went to peck the ground their tail 
feathers stuck straight up to the sky. Tusky called 
’em Japanese Games. 

“Which the chief advantage of them chickens is,” 
says he, “that in weight about ninety per cent, of ’em 
is breast meat. Now my idee is, that if we can cross 
’em with these Cochin Chiny fowls we’ll have a low- 
hung, heavy-weight chicken runnin’ strong on breast 
meat. These Jap Games is too small, but if we can 
bring ’em up in size and shorten their laigs, we’ll shore 
have a winner.” 

That looked good to me, so we started in on that 
idee. The theery was bully, but she didn’t work out. 
The first broods we hatched growed up with big 

129 


THE BOV SCOUTS BOOK OP STORIES 


husky Cochin Chiny bodies and little short necks, 
perched up on laigs three foot long. Them chickens 
couldn't reach ground nohow. We had to build a 
table for 'em to eat off, and when they went out rustlin' 
for themselves they had to confine themselves to side- 
hills or flyin' insects. Their breasts was all right, 
though — “And think of them drumsticks for the 
boardin’-house trade!" says Tusky. 

So far things wasn't so bad. We had a good grub- 
stake. Tusky and me used to feed them chickens 
twict a day, and then used to set around watchin' the 
playful critters chase grasshoppers up and down the 
wire corrals, while Tusky figgered out what’d happen 
if somebody was dumfool enough to gather up some- 
thin’ and fix it in baskets or wagons or such. That 
was where we showed our ignorance of chickens. 

One day in the spring I hitched up, rustled a dozen 
of the youngsters into coops, and druv over to the 
railroad to make our first sale. I couldn't fold them 
chickens up into them coops at first, but then I stuck 
the coops up on aidge and they worked all right, 
though I will admit they was a comical sight. At the 
railroad one of them towerist trains had just slowed 
down to a halt as I come up, and the towerists was 
paradin' up and down allowin' they was particular en- 
joyin' of the warm Californy sunshine. One old 
terrapin with gray chin whiskers, projected over, with 
his wife, and took a peek through the slats of my coop. 
130 


THE HONK-HONK BREED 


He straightened up like some one had touched him off 
with a red-hot poker. 

“Stranger/' said he, in a scared kind of whisper, 
“what's them?" 

“Them’s chickens," says I. 

He took another long look. 

“Marthy," says he to the old woman, “this will 
be about all! We come out from Ioway to see the 
Wonders of Californy, but I can’t go nothin' stronger 
than this. If these is chickens, I don't want to see no 
Big Trees." 

Well, I sold them chickens all right for a dollar and 
two bits, which was better than I expected, and got 
an order for more. About ten days later I got a let- 
ter from the commission house. 

“We are returnin’ a sample of your Arts and Crafts 
chickens with the lovin’ marks of the teeth still onto 
him,” says they. “Don’t send any more till they stops 
pursuin’ of the nimble grasshopper. Dentist bill will 
foller." 

With the letter came the remains of one of the 
chickens. Tusky and I, very indignant, cooked her 
for supper. She was tough, all right. We thought 
she might do better biled, so we put her in the pot over 
night. Nary bit. Well, then ge got interested. Tusky 
kep’ the fire goin’ and I rustled greasewood. We 
cooked her three days and three nights. At the end 
of that time she was sort of pale and frazzled, but 
still givin’ points to three-year-old jerky on cohesion 

131 


THE BOY SCOUTS BOOK OF STORIES 


and other uncompromisin , forces of Nature. We 
buried her then, and went out back to recuperate. 

There we could gaze on the smilin’ landscape, dotted 
by about four hundred long-laigged chickens swoopin’ 
here and there after grasshoppers. 

“We got to stop that,” says I. 

“We can’t,” murmured Tusky, inspiried. “We 
can’t. It’s born in ’em; it’s primal instinct, like the 
love of a mother for her young, and it can’t be 
eradicated ! Them chickens is constructed by a divine 
providence for the express purpose of chasin’ grass- 
hoppers, just as the beaver is made for building dams, 
and the cow-puncher is made for whisky and faro- 
games. We can’t keep ’em from it. If we was to 
shut ’em in a dark cellar, they’d flop after imaginary 
grasshoppers in their dreams, and die emaciated in the 
midst of plenty. Jimmy, we’re up agin the Cosmos, 

the oversoul ” Oh, he had the medicine tongue, 

Tusky had, and risin’ on the wings of eloquence that 
way, he had me faded in ten minutes. In fifteen I was 
wedded solid to the notion that the bottom had dropped 
out of the chicken business. I think now that if we’d 
shut them hens up, we might have — still, I don’t know ; 
they was a good deal in what Tusky said. 

“Tuscarora Maxillary,” says I, “did you ever stop 
to entertain that beautiful thought that if all the dum- 
foolishness possessed now by the human race could be 
gathered together, and lined up alongside of us, the 
132 


THE HONK-HONK BREED 

first feller to come along would say to it, ‘Why, hello, 
Solomon !’ ” 

We quit the notion of chickens for profit right then 
and there, but we couldn’t quit the place. We hadn’t 
much money, for one thing, and then we kind of liked 
loafin’ around and raisin’ a little garden truck, and — 
oh, well, I might as well say so, we had a notion about 
placers in the dry wash back of the house — you know 
how it is. So we stayed on, and kept a-raisin’ these 
long-laigs for the fun of it. I used to like to watch 
’em projectin’ around, and I fed ’em twict a day about 
as usual. 

So Tusky and I lived alone there together, happy 
as ducks in Arizona. About onc’t in a month some- 
body’d pike along the road. She wasn’t much of a 
road, generally more chuck-holes than bumps, though 
sometimes it was the other way around. Unless it 
happened to be a man horseback or maybe a freighter 
without the fear of God in his soul, we didn’t have 
no words with them; they was too busy cussin’ the 
highways and generally too mad for social discourses. 

One day early in the year, when the ’dobe mud 
made ruts to add to the bumps, one of these automo- 
beels went past. It was the first Tusky and me had 
seen in them parts, so we run out to view her. 

“Which them folks don’t seem to be enjoyin’ of the 
scenery,” says I to Tusky. “Do you reckon that there 
blue trail is smoke from the machine or remarks from 
the inhabitants thereof?” 


133 


THE BOY SCOUTS BOOK OF STORIES 


Tusky raised his head and sniffed long and in- 
quirin'. 

“It’s langwidge,” says he. “Did you ever stop to 
think that all the words in the dictionary hitched end 
to end would reach ” 

But at that minute I catched sight of somethin' brass 
lyin' in the road. It proved to be a curled-up sort of 
horn with a rubber bulb on the end. I squoze the 
bulb and jumped twenty foot over the remark she 
made. 

“Jarred off the machine," says Tusky. 

“Oh, did it?" says I, my nerves still wrong. “I 
thought maybe it had growed up from the soil like a 
toadstool." 

About this time we abolished the wire chicken cor- 
rals, because we needed some of the wire. Them 
long-laigs thereupon scattered all over the flat searchin' 
out their prey. When feed time come I had to screech 
my lungs out gettin' of 'em in, and then sometimes they 
didn't all hear. It was plumb discouragin', and I 
mighty nigh made up my mind to quit 'em, but they 
had come to be sort of pets, and I hated to turn 'em 
down. It used to tickle Tusky almost to death to see 
me out there hollerin' away like an old bull-frog. He 
used to come out reg'la, with his pipe lit, just to en- 
joy me. Finally I got mad and opened up on him. 

“Oh," he explains, “it just plumb amuses me to see 
the dumfool at his childish work. Why don't you 
134 


THE HONK-HONK BREED 

teach ’em to come to that brass horn, and save your 
voice?” 

“Tusky,” says I, with feelin’, “sometimes you do 
seem to get a glimmer of real sense.” 

Well, first off them chickens used to throw back- 
summersets over that horn. You have no idee how 
slow chickens is to learn things. I could tell you 
things about chickens — say, this yere bluff about 
roosters bein’ gallant is all wrong. I’ve watched ’em. 
When one finds a nice feed he gobbles it so fast that 
the pieces foller down his throat like yearlin’s through 
a hole in the fence. It’s only when he scratches up a 
measly one-grain quick-lunch that he calls up the 
hens and stands noble and self-sacrificin’ to one side. 
That ain’t the point, which is, that after two months 
I had them long-laigs so they’d drop everythin’ and 
come kitin’ at the honk-honk of that horn. It was a 
purty sight to see ’em, sailin’ in from all directions 
twenty foot at a stride. I was proud of ’em, and 
named ’em the Honk-honk Breed. We didn’t have 
no others, for by now the coyotes and bob-cats had 
nailed the straight-breds. There wasn’t no wild cat 
or coyote could catch one of my Honk-honks, no, sir! 

We made a little on our placer — just enough to keep 
interested. Then the supervisors decided to fix our 
road, and what’s more, they done it! That’s the only 
part in this yarn that’s hard to believe, but, boys, you’ll 
have to take it on faith. They plowed her, and 
crowned her, and scraped her, and rolled her, and when 


THE BOY SCOUTS BOOK OF STORIES 


they moved on we had the fanciest highway in the 
State of Californy. 

That noon — the day they called her a job — Tusky 
and I sat smokin’ our pipes as per usual, when way 
over the foothills we seen a cloud of dust and faint 
to our ears was bore a whizzin’ sound. The chickens 
was gathered under the cottonwood for the heat of 
the day, but they didn’t pay no attention. Then faint, 
but clear, we heard another of them brass horns : 

“Honk! honk!” says it, and every one of them 
chickens woke up, and stood at attention. 

“Honk ! honk !” it hollered clearer and nearer. Then 
over the hill come an automobeel, blowin’ vigorous at 
every jump. 

“Stop ’em! Stop ’em!” I yells to Tusky, kickin’ 
over my chair, as I springs to my feet. 

But it was too late. Out the gate sprinted them 
poor devoted chickens, and up the road they trailed in 
vain pursuit. The last we seen of ’em was a minglin’ 
of dust and dim figgers goin’ thirty mile an hour after 
a disappearin’ automobeel. 

That was all we seen for the moment. About three 
o’clock the first straggler came limpin’ in, his wings 
hangin’, his mouth open, his eyes glazed with the 
heat. By sundown fourteen had returned. All the 
rest had disappeared utter; we never seen ’em again. 
I reckon they just naturally run themselves into a 
sunstroke and died on the road. 

It takes a long time to learn a chicken a thing, but 
I3 6 


THE HONK-HONK BREED 


a heap longer to unlearn him. After that two or 
three of these yere automobeels went by every day, all 
a-blowin’ of their horns. And every time them four- 
teen Honk-honks of mine took along after ’em, just 
as I’d taught ’em to do, lay in’ to get to their corn 
when they caught up. No more of ’em died, but that 
fourteen did get into elegant trainin’. After a while 
they got plumb to enjoyin’ it. When you come right 
down to it, a chicken don’t have many amusements and 
relaxations in this life. Searchin’ for worms, chasin’ 
grasshoppers, and wallerin’ in the dust is about the 
limits of joys for chickens. 

It was sure a fine sight to see ’em after they got 
well into the game. About nine o’clock every mornin’ 
they would saunter down to the rise of the road where 
they would wait patient until a machine came along. 
Then it would warm your heart to see the enthusiasm 
of them. With exultant cackles of joy they’d trail in, 
reachin’ out like quarter-horses, their wings half 
spread out, their eyes beamin’ with delight. At the 
lower turn they’d quit. Then, after talkin’ it over 
excited-like for a few minutes, they’d calm down and 
wait for another. 

After a few months of this sort of trainin’ they got 
purty good at it. I had one two-year-old rooster that 
made fifty-four mile an hour behind one of those 
sixty-horsepower Panhandles. When cars didn’t 
come along often enough, they’d all turn out and chase 
jack-rabbits. They wasn’t much fun at that. After 
137 


THE BOY SCOUTS BOOK OF STORIES 


a short, brief sprint the rabbit would crouch down 
plumb terrified, while the Honk-honks pulled off tri- 
umphal dances around his shrinkin’ form. 

Our ranch got to be purty well known them days 
among automobeelists. The strength of their cars 
was horsepower, of course, but the speed of them they 
got to ratin’ by chickenpower. Some of them used to 
come way up from Los Angeles just to try out a new 
car along our road with the Honk-honks for pace- 
makers. We charged them a little somethin’ and then, 
too, we opened up the road-house and the bar, so we 
did purty well. It wasn’t necessary to work any 
longer at that bogus placer. Evenin’s we sat around 
outside and swapped yarns, and I bragged on my chick- 
ens. The chickens would gather round close to listen. 
They liked to hear their praises sung, all right. You 
bet they sabe! The only reason a chicken, or any 
other critter, isn’t intelligent is because he hasn’t no 
chance to expand. 

Why, we used to run races with ’em. Some of us 
would hold two or more chickens back of a chalk line, 
and the starter ’d blow the horn from a hundred yards 
to a mile away, dependin’ on whether it was a sprint 
or for distance. We had pools on the results, gave 
odds, made books, and kept records. After the thing 
got knowed we made money hand over fist. 


The stranger broke off abruptly and began to roll 
a cigarette. 


138 


THE HONK-HONK BREED 


“What did you quit it for, then?’ 5 ventured Charley, 
out of the hushed silence. 

“Pride,” replied the stranger solemnly. “Haughti- 
ness of spirit.” 

“How so?” urged Charley, after a pause. 

“Them chickens,” continued the stranger, after a 
moment, “stood around listenin’ to me a-braggin’ of 
what superior fowls they was until they got all puffed 
up. They wouldn’t have nothin’ whatever to do with 
the ordinary chickens we brought in for eatin’ pur- 
poses, but stood around lookin’ bored when there 
wasn’t no sport doin’. They got to be just like that 
Four Hundred you read about in the papers. It was 
one continual round of grasshopper balls, race meets, 
and afternoon hen-parties. They got idle and haughty, 
just like folks. They got to feelin’ so aristocratic the 
hens wouldn’t have no eggs.” 

Nobody dared say a word. 

“Windy Bill’s snake ” began the narrator 

genially. 

“Stranger,” broke in Windy Bill, with great 
emphasis, “as to that snake, I want you to understand 
this : yereafter in my estimation that snake is nothin’ 
but an ornery angle-worm!” 



vn.— The Devil-Fish* 

By Norman Duncan 


W HEN the Minister of Justice for the colony 
of Newfoundland went away from Rud- 
dy Cove by the bay steamer, he chanced 
to leave an American magazine at the home of Billy 
Topsail’s father, where he had passed the night. The 
magazine contained an illustrated article on the gigan- 
tic species of cephalopods 1 popularly known as devil- 
fish. 

* Reprinted by special permission from “The Adventures of 
Billy Topsail.” Copyright, 1906, by Fleming H. Revell Company. 

*“The early literature of natural history has, from very 
remote times, contained allusions to huge species of cephalo- 
pods, often accompanied by more or less fabulous and 
usually exaggerated descriptions of the creatures. . . . The 
description of the ‘poulpe/ or devil-fish, by Victor Hugo, in 
‘Toilers of the Sea/ with which so many readers are fa- 
miliar, is quite as fabulous and unreal as any of the earlier 
accounts, and even more bizarre. . . . Special attention has 
only recently been called to the frequent occurrence of these 
140 



“ ’ns THE devil-fish!” screamed bobby 

















































































































THE DEVIL-FISH 


Billy Topsail did not know what a cephalopod was; 
but he did know a squid when he saw its picture, for 
Ruddy Cove is a fishing harbor, and he had caught 
many a thousand for bait. So when he found that to 
the lay mind a squid and a cephalopod were one and 
the same, save in size, he read the long article from 
beginning to end, doing the best he could with the 
strange, long words. 

So interested was he that he read it again ; and by 
that time he had learned enough to surprise him, 
even to terrify him, notwithstanding the writer’s as- 
surance that the power and ferocity of the creatures 
had generally been exaggerated. 

He was a lad of sound common sense. He had 
never wholly doubted the tales of desperate encounters 
with devil-fish, told in the harbor these many years; 

‘big squids/ as our fishermen call them, in the waters of 
Newfoundland and the adjacent coasts. ... I have been in- 
formed by many other fishermen that the ‘big squids’ are 
occasionally taken on the Grand Banks and used for bait. 
Nearly all the specimens hitherto taken appear to have been 
more or less disabled when first observed, otherwise they 
probably would not appear at the surface in the daytime. 
From the fact that they have mostly come ashore in the 
night, I infer that they inhabit chiefly the very deep and 
cold fiords of Newfoundland, and come to the surface only 
in the night.” — From the “Report on the Cephalopods of the 
Northeastern Coast of America,” by A. E. Verrill. Ex- 
tracted from a report of the Commissioner of Fish and Fish- 
eries, issued by the Government Printing Office at Washing- 
ton. In this report twenty-five specimens of the large species 
taken in Newfoundland are described in detail. 

141 


THE BOt SCOUTS BOOK OF STORIES 

for the various descriptions of how the long slimy 
arms had curled about the punts had rung too true 
to be quite disbelieved; but he had considered them 
somewhat less credible than certain wild yarns of 
shipwreck, and somewhat more credible than the 
bedtime stories of mermaids which the grandmothers 
told the children of the place. 

Here, however, in plain print, was described the 
capture of a giant squid in a bay which lay beyond 
a point of land that Billy could see from the window. 

That afternoon Billy put out in his leaky old punt 
to “jig” squid for bait. He was so disgusted with 
the punt — so ashamed of the squat, weather-worn, 
rotten cast-off — that he wished heartily for a new one 
all the way to the grounds. The loss of the Never 
Give Up had brought him to humiliating depths. 

But when he had once joined the little fleet of boats, 
he cheerfully threw his grapnel into Bobby Lot’s punt 
and beckoned Bobby aboard. Then, as together they 
drew the writhing-armed, squirting little squids from 
the water, he told of the “big squids” which lurked 
in the deep water beyond the harbor ; and all the time 
Bobby opened his eyes wider and wider. 

“Is they just like squids?” Bobby asked. 

“But bigger,” answered Billy. “Their bodies is so 
big as hogsheads. Their arms is thirty-five feet long.” 

Bobby picked a squid from the heap in the bottom 
of the boat. It had instinctively turned from a red- 
dish-brown to a livid green, the color of sea-water; 
142 


THE DEVIL-FISH 


indeed, had it been in the water, its enemy would 
have had hard work to see it. 

He handled it gingerly; but the ugly little creature 
managed somehow to twine its slender arms about his 
hand, and swiftly to take hold with a dozen cup-like 
suckers. The boy uttered an exclamation of disgust, 
and shook it off. Then he shuddered, laughed at 
himself, shuddered again. A moment later he chose 
a dead squid for examination. 

“Leave us look at it close/’ said he. “Then we’ll 
know what a real devil-fish is like. Sure, I’ve been 
wantin’ to know that for a long, long time.” 

They observed the long cylindrical body, flabby and 
cold, with the broad, flap-like tail attached. The head 
was repulsively ugly — perhaps because of the eyes, 
which were disproportionately large, brilliant, and, 
in the live squid, ferocious. 

A group of arms — two long, slender, tentacular 
arms, and eight shorter, thicker ones — projected from 
the region of the mouth, which, indeed, was set in the 
center of the ring they formed at the roots. They 
were equipped with innumerable little suckers, were 
flexible and active, and as long as the head, body and 
tail put together. 

Closer examination revealed that there was a homy 
beak, like a parrot’s, in the mouth, and that on the 
under side of the head was a curious tube-like struc- 
ture. 

“Oh, that’s his squirter!” Billy explained. “When 
143 


THE BOY SCOUTS BOOK OF STORIES 


he wants to back up he points that forward, and 
squirts out water so hard as he can; and when he 
wants to go ahead he points it backward, and does the 
same thing. That’s where his ink comes from, too, 
when he wants to make the water so dirty nobody 
can see him.” 

“What does he do with his beak?” 

“When he gets his food in his arms he bites out 
pieces with his beak. He hasn’t any teeth; but he’s 
got something just as good — a tongue like a rasp.” 

“I wouldn’t like to be cotched by a squid as big 
as a hogshead,” Bobby remarked, timidly. 

“Hut !” said Billy, grimly. “He’d make short work 
o’ you! Why, b’y, they weighs half a tone apiece! 
I isn’t much afraid, though,” he added. “They’re 
only squid. Afore I read about them in the book I 
used to think they was worse than they is — terrible 
ghostlike things. But they’re no worse than squids, 
only bigger, and ” 

“They’re bad enough for me,” Bobby interrupted. 

“And,” Billy concluded, “they only comes up in 
the night or when they’re sore wounded and dyin’.” 

“I’m not goin’ out at night, if I can help it,” said 
Bobby, with a canny shake of the head. 

“If they was a big squid come up the harbor to 
your house,” said Billy, after a pause, “and got close 
to the rock, he could put one o’ they two long arms in 
your bedroom window, and ” 

“ ’Tis in the attic!” 


144 


THE DEVIL-FISH 


“Never mind that. He could put it in the window 
and feel around for your bed, and twist that arm 
around you, and ” 

“I’d cut it off!” 

“Anyhow, that’s how long they is. And if he 
knowed you was there, and wanted you, he could get 
you. But I’m not so sure that he would want you. 
He couldn’t see you, anyhow; and if he could, he’d 
rather have a good fat salmon.” 

Bobby shuddered as he looked at the tiny squid in 
his hand, and thought of the dreadful possibilities in 
one a thousand times as big. 

“You leave them alone, and they’ll leave you alone,” 
Billy went on. “But if you once make them mad, 
they can dart their arms out like lightning. ’Tis time 
to get, then!” 

“I’m goin’ to keep an ax in my punt after this,” 
said Bobby, “and if I sees an arm slippin’ out of the 
water ” 

“ ’Tis as big as your thigh!” cried Billy. 

“Never mind. If I sees it I’ll be able to cut it off.” 

“If I sees one,” said Billy, “I’m goin’ to cotch it. 
It said in the book that they was worth a lot to some 
people. And if I can sell mine I’m goin’ to have a 
new punt.” 

But although Bobby Lot and Billy Topsail kept a 
sharp lookout for giant squids wherever they went, 
they were not rewarded. There was not so much as 
a sign of one. By and by, so bold did they become, 
145 


THE BOY SCOUTS BOOK OF STORIES 


they hunted for one in the twilight of summer days, 
even daring to pry into the deepest coves and holes in 
the Ruddy Cove rocks. 

Notwithstanding the ridicule he had to meet, Bobby 
never ventured out in the punt without a sharp ax. 
He could not tell what time he would need it, he said ; 
and thus he formed the habit of making sure that it 
was in its place before casting off from the wharf. 

As autumn drew near they found other things to 
think of; the big squids passed out of mind alto- 
gether. 

“Wonderful queer,” Billy said, long afterwards, 
“how things happen when you isn’t expectin’ them!” 

One day late in September — it was near evening 
of a gray day — Billy Topsail and Bobby Lot were 
returning in Bobby’s punt from Birds’ Nest Islands, 
whither they had gone to hunt a group of seals, re- 
ported to have taken up a temporary residence there. 
They had a mighty, muzzle-loading, flintlock gun; 
and they were so delighted with the noise it made that 
they had exhausted their scanty provision of powder 
and lead long before the seals were in sight. 

They had taken the shortest way home. It lay past 
Chain Hole, a small, landlocked basin, very deep, with 
a narrow entrance, which was shallow at low tide. 
The entrance opened into a broad bay, and was called 
Chain Tickle. 


146 


THE DEVIL-FISH 


What's that in the tickle ?” Billy exclaimed, as 
they were rowing past. 

It was a black object, apparently floating quietly on 
the surface of the water. The boys gazed at it for 
a long time, but could make nothing of it. They were 
completely puzzled. 

“ ’Tis a small bit o’ wreck, Fm thinkin’,” said 
Bobby. “Leave us row close and see.” 

“Maybe ’tis a capsized punt.” 

When they were within about thirty yards of the 
object they lay on their oars. For some unaccount- 
able reason they did not care to venture nearer. Twi- 
light was then fast approaching. The light was al- 
ready beginning to fail. 

“ Tis a wonderful queer thing!” Billy muttered, 
his curiosity getting the better of him. “Row ahead, 
Bobby. We’ll go alongside.” 

“They’s something movin’ on it !” Bobby whispered, 
as he let his oars fall in the water. “Look! They’s 
two queer, big, round spots on it — big as plates.” 

Billy thought he saw the whole object move. He 
watched it closely. It did stir! It was some living 
thing, then. But what? A whale? 

A long, snake-like arm was lifted out of the water. 
It swayed this way and that, darted here and there, 
and fell back with a splash. The moving spots, now 
plainly gigantic eyes, glittered. 

“’Tis the devil-fish!” screamed Bobby. 

Another arm was lifted up, then a third and a fourth 
147 


THE BOY SCOUTS BOOK OF STORIES 


and a fifth. The monster began to lash the water — 
faster and yet more furiously — until the tickle was 
heaving and frothy, and the whole neighborhood was 
in an uproar. 

“Pull! Pull !” cried Bobby. 

Billy, too, was in a panic. They turned the head 
of the punt and pulled with all their might. The 
water swirled in the wake of the boat. Perceiving, 
however, that the squid made no effort to follow, 
they got the better of their fright. Then they lay on 
their oars to watch the monster. 

They wondered why it still lay in the tickle, why it 
so furiously lashed the water with its arms and great 
tail. It was Bobby who solved the mystery. 

“ ’Tis aground,” said he. 

That was evidently the situation. The squid had 
been caught in the shallow tickle when the tide, which 
ran swiftly at that point, was on the ebb. The boys 
took courage. Their curiosity still further embold- 
ened them. So once more they turned the punt about 
and pulled cautiously towards the tickle. 

There was less light than before, but still sufficient 
to disclose the baleful eyes and writhing arms of the 
squid when the boat was yet a safe distance away. 
One by one the arms fell back into the water, as if 
from exhaustion; slowly the beating of the tail sub- 
sided. After a time all sound and motion ceased. 
The boys waited for some further sign of life, but 
none came. The squid was still, as if dead. 

148 


THE DEVIL-FISH 

“Sure, he’s dead now,” said Billy. “Leave us pull 
close up.” 

“Oh, no, b’y! He’s but makin’ believe.” 

But Billy thought otherwise. “I wants that squid,” 
he said, in a dogged way, “and I’m goin’ to have him. 
I’ll sell him and get a new punt.” 

Bobby protested in vain. Nothing would content 
Billy Topsail but the possession of the big squid’s body. 
Bobby pointed out that if the long, powerful arms were 
once laid on the boat there would be no escape. He 
recalled to Billy the harbor story of the horrible death 
of Zachariah North, who, as report said, had been 
pursued, captured, and pulled under water by a devil- 
fish in Gander Bay . 1 

It was all to no purpose, however, for Billy ob- 
stinately declared that he would make sure of the squid 
before the tide turned. He admitted a slight risk, but 
he wanted a new punt, and he was willing to risk 
something to obtain it. 

He proposed to put Bobby ashore, and approach 
the squid alone; but Bobby would not listen. Two 
hands might be needed in the boat, he said. What 
if the squid were alive, after all? What if it laid 
hold of the punt? In that event, two hands would 
surely be needed. 

“I’ll go,” he said. “But leave us pull slow. And 

1 Stories of this kind, of which there are many, are doubted 
by the authorities, who have found it impossible to authen- 
ticate a single instance of unprovoked attack. 

149 


THE BOY SCOUTS BOOK OF STORIES 


if we sees so much as a wink of his eye we’ll pull 
away.” 

They rowed nearer, with great caution. Billy was 
in the bow of the boat. It was he who had the ax. 
Bobby, seated amidships, faced the bow. It was he 
who did the rowing. 

The squid was quiet. There was not a sign of life 
about it. Billy estimated the length of its body, from 
the beak to the point of the tail,, as twenty feet, the 
circumference as “the size of a hogshead.” Its ten- 
tacular arms, he determined, must be at least thirty- 
five feet long; and when the boat came within that 
distance he shuddered. 

“Is you sure he’s dead ?” Bobby whispered, weakly. 

“I don’t know!” Billy answered, in a gasp. “I 
thinks so.” 

Bobby dropped the oars and stepped to the bow of 
the punt. The boat lost way and came to a stop within 
twenty feet of the squid. Still there was no sign of 
life. 

The boys stared at the great, still body, lying quiet 
in the gathering dusk and haze. Neither seemed to 
feel the slight trembling of the boat that might have 
warned them. Not a word was spoken until Billy, 
in a whisper, directed Bobby to pull the boat a few 
feet nearer. 

“But we’re movin’ already,” he added, in a puzzled 
way. 

The boat was very slowly approaching the squid. 

I S° 


THE DEVIL-FISH 


The motion was hardly perceptible, but it was real. 

“’Tis queer!” said Bobby. 

He turned to take up the oars. What he saw 
lying over the port gunwale of the boat made him 
gasp, grip Billy’s wrist and utter a scream of terror! 

‘‘We’re cotched!” 

The squid had fastened one of its tentacles to the 
punt. The other was poised above the stern, ready to 
fall and fix its suckers. The onward movement of 
the punt was explained. 

Billy knew the danger, but he was not so terrified 
as to be incapable of action. He was about to spring 
to the stem to strike off the tentacle that already 
lay over the gunwale ; but as he looked down to choose 
his step he saw that one of the eight powerful arms 
was slowly creeping over the starboard bow. 

He struck at that arm with all his might, missed, 
wrenched the ax from the gunwale, and struck true. 
The mutilated arm was withdrawn. Billy leaped to 
the stern, vaguely conscious in passing that another 
arm was creeping from the water. He severed the 
first tentacle with one blow. When he turned to 
strike the second it had disappeared; so, too, had the 
second arm. The boat seemed to be free, but it was 
still within grasp. 

In the meantime the squid had awakened to furious 
activity. It was lashing the water with arms and tail, 
angrily snapping its great beak and ejecting streams of 

I 5 I 


THE BOY SCOUTS BOOK OF STORIES 


black water from its siphon- tube. The water was 
violently agitated and covered with a black froth. 

In this the creature manifested fear and distress. 
Had it not been aground it would have backed swiftly 
into the deep water of the basin. But, as if finding 
itself at bay, it lifted its uninjured tentacle high above 
the boat. Billy made ready to strike. 

By this time Bobby had mastered his terror. While 
Billy stood with uplifted ax, his eyes fixed on the 
waving tentacle overhead, Bobby heaved mightily on 
the oars. The boat slowly drew away from that highly 
dangerous neighborhood. In a moment it was beyond 
reach of the arms, but still, apparently, within reach of 
the tentacle. The tentacle was withdrawn a short 
distance; then like a flash it shot towards the boat, 
writhing as it came. 

Billy struck blindly — and struck nothing. The ten- 
tacle had fallen short. The boat was out of danger! 

But still Billy Topsail was determined to have the 
body of the squid. Notwithstanding Bobby’s plead- 
ing and protestation, he would not abandon his pur- 
pose. He was only the more grimly bent on achiev- 
ing it. Bobby would not hear of again approaching 
nearer than the boat then floated, nor did Billy think 
it advisable. But it occurred to Bobby that they might 
land, and approach the squid from behind. If they 
could draw near enough, he said, they could cast the 
152 


THE DEVIL-FISH 

grapnel on the squid’s back, and moor it to a tree 
ashore. 

“Sure,” he said, excitedly, “you can pick up a squid 
from behind, and it can’t touch you with its arms ! It 
won’t be able to see us, and it won’t be able to reach 
us.” 

So they landed. Billy carried the grapnel, which 
was attached to twelve fathoms of line. It had six 
prongs, and each prong was barbed. 

A low cliff at the edge of the tickle favored the 
plan. The squid lay below, and some twenty feet out 
from the rock. It was merely a question of whether 
or not Billy was strong enough to throw the grapnel 
so far. They tied the end of the line to a stout shrub. 
Billy cast the grapnel, and it was a strong, true cast. 
The iron fell fair on the squid’s back. It was a cap- 
ture. 

“That means a new punt for me,” said Billy, quietly. 
“The tide’ll not carry that devil-fish away.” 

“And now,” Bobby pleaded, “leave us make haste 
home, for ’tis growin’ wonderful dark — and — and 
there might be another somewhere.” 

So that is how one of the largest specimens of 
Architeuthis prince ps — enumerated in Prof. John 
Adam Wright’s latest monograph on the cephalopods 
of North America as the “Chain Tickle specimen” — 
was captured. And that is how Billy Topsail fairly 
won a new punt ; for when Doctor Marvey, the curator 
of the Public Museum at St. John’s — who is deeply 
153 


THE BOY SCOUTS BOOK OF STORIES 


interested in the study of the giant squids — came to 
Ruddy Cove to make photographs and take measure- 
ments, in response to a message from Billy’s father, 
he rewarded the lad. 


VIE. — The Jumping Frog* 

By Mark Twain 

I N compliance with the request of a friend of mine, 
who wrote me from the East, I called on good- 
natured, garrulous old Simon Wheeler, and in- 
quired after my friend’s friend, Leonidas W. Smiley, 
as requested to do, and I hereunto append the result. 
I have a lurking suspicion that Leonidas W. Smiley 
is a myth; that my friend never knew such a person- 
age; and that he only conjectured that if I asked old 
Wheeler about him, it would remind him of his in- 
famous Jim Smiley, and he would go to work and 
bore me to death with some exasperating reminiscence 

* Published by express permission of the Mark Twain Com- 
pany as well as the Trustees of the Estate of Samuel L. Demens 
and Harper and Brothers, Publishers. 

155 


THE BOY SCOUTS BOOK OF STORIES 


of him as long and as tedious as it should be useless 
to me. If that was the design, it succeeded. 

I found Simon Wheeler dozing comfortably by the 
bar-room stove of the dilapidated tavern in the decay- 
ing mining camp of Angel's, and I noticed that he was 
fat and bald-headed, and had an expression of winning 
gentleness and simplicity upon his tranquil counte- 
nance. He roused up, and gave me good-day. I told 
him a friend of mine had commissioned me to make 
some inquiries about a cherished companion of his 
boyhood named Leonidas W. Smiley — Rev. Leonidas 
W. Smiley, a young minister of the Gospel, who he 
had heard was at one time a resident of Angel’s Camp. 
I added that if Mr. Wheeler could tell me anything 
about this Rev. Leonidas W. Smiley, I would feel 
under many obligations to him. 

Simon Wheeler backed me into a corner and block- 
aded me there with his chair, and then sat down and 
reeled off the monotonous narrative which follows this 
paragraph. He never smiled, he never frowned, he 
never changed his voice from the gentle-flowing key 
to which he tuned his initial sentence, he never be- 
trayed the slightest suspicion of enthusiasm; but all 
through the interminable narrative there ran a vein 
of impressive earnestness and sincerity, which showed 
me plainly that, so far from his imagining that there 
was anything ridiculous or funny about his story, he 
regarded it as a really important matter, and admired 
its two heroes as men of transcendent genius in finesse . 
156 


THE JUMPING FROG 

I let him go on in his own way, and never interrupted 
him once. 

“Rev. Leonidas W. H’m, Reverend Le — well, there 
was a feller here once by the name of Jim Smiley, in 
the winter of ’49 — or maybe it was the spring of ’50 
— I don’t recollect exactly, somehow, though what 
makes me think it was one or the other is because I 
remember the big flume warn’t finished when he first 
came to the camp; but anyway, he was the curiosest 
man about always betting on anything that turned up 
you ever see, if he could get anybody to bet on the 
other side, and if he couldn’t he’d change sides. Any 
way what suited the other man would suit him — any 
way just so’s he got a bet, he was satisfied. But still 
he was lucky, uncommon lucky ; he ’most always come 
out winner. He was always ready and laying for a 
chance; there couldn’t be no solit’ry thing mentioned 
but that feller’d offer to bet on it, and take ary side 
you please, as I was just telling you. If there was a 
horse-race, you’d find him flush or you’d find him 
busted at the end of it; if there was a dog-fight, he’d 
bet on it; if there was a cat-fight, he’d bet on it; if 
there was a chicken-fight, he’d bet on it; why, if there 
was two birds sitting on a fence, he would bet you 
which one would fly first; or if there was a camp- 
meeting, he would be there reg’lar to bet on Parson 
Walker, which he judged to be the best exhorter 
about here, and so he was, too, and a good man. If 
he even see a straddle-bug start to go anywheres, he 
157 


THE BOY SCOUTS BOOK OF STORIES 


would bet you how long it would take him to get 
to — to wherever he was going to, and if you took him 
up, he would foller that straddle-bug to Mexico but 
what he would find out where he was bound for and 
how long he was on the road. Lots of the boys here 
has seen that Smiley, and can tell you about him. 
Why, it never made no difference to him — he’d bet on 
any thing — the dangdest feller. Parson Walker’s 
wife laid very sick once, for a good while, and it 
seemed as if they warn’t going to save her; but one 
morning he came in, and Smiley up and asked him how 
she was, and he said she was consid’able better — thank 
the Lord for his inf’nite mercy — and coming on so 
smart that with the blessing of Prov’dence she’d get 
well yet; and Smiley, before he thought, says: ‘Well, 
I’ll resk two-and-a-half she don’t anyway.’ 

“Thish-yer Smiley had a mare — the boys called her 
the fifteen-minute nag, but that was only in fun, you 
know, because, of course, she was faster than that — 
and he used to win money on that horse, for all she 
was so slow and always had the asthma, or the dis- 
temper, or the consumption, or something of that 
kind. They used to give her two or three hundred 
yards start, and then pass her under way; but always 
at the fag end of the race she’d get excited and 
desperate like, and come cavorting and straddling up, 
and scattering her legs around limber, sometimes in 
the air, and sometimes out to one side among the 
fences, and kicking up m-o-r-e dust and raising m-o-r-e 

158 


THE JUMPING FROG 

racket with her coughing and sneezing and blowing 
her nose — and always fetch up at the stand just about 
a neck ahead, as near as you could cipher it down. 

“And he had a little small bull-pup, that to look 
at him you’d think he warn’t worth a cent but to set 
around and look ornery and lay for a chance to steal 
something. But as soon as money was up on him he 
was a different dog; his under- jaw’d begin to stick 
out like the fo’castle of a steamboat, and his teeth 
would uncover and shine like the furnaces. And a 
dog might tackle him and bully-rag him, and bite him, 
and throw him over his shoulder two or three times, 
and Andrew Jackson — which was the name of the 
pup — Andrew Jackson would never let on but what he 
was satisfied, and hadn’t expected nothing else — and 
the bets being doubled and doubled on the other side 
all the time, till the money was all up; and then all of 
a sudden he would grab that other dog jest by the 
j’int of his hind leg and freeze to it — not chaw, you 
understand, but only just grip and hang on till they 
thro wed up the sponge, if it was a year. Smiley 
always come out winner on that pup, till he harnessed 
a dog once that didn’t have no hind legs, because 
they’d been sawed off in a circular saw, and when the 
thing had gone alone far enough, and the money was 
all up, and he come to make a snatch for his pet holt, 
he see in a minute how he’d been imposed on, and how 
the other dog had him in the door, so to speak, and he 
’peared surprised, and then he looked sorter discour- 
159 


THE BOY SCOUTS BOOK OF STORIES 


aged-like and didn’t try no more to win the fight, and 
so he got shucked out bad. He give Smiley a look, 
as much as to say his heart was broke, and it was his 
fault, for putting up a dog that hadn’t no hind legs 
for him to take holt of, which was his main dependence 
in a fight, and then he limped off a piece and laid down 
and died. It was a good pup, was that Andrew Jack- 
son, and would have made a name for hisself if he’d 
lived, for the stuff was in him and he had genius — I 
know it, because he hadn’t no opportunities to speak 
of, and it don’t stand to reason that a dog could make 
such a fight as he could under them circumstances if 
he hadn’t no talent. It always makes me feel sorry 
when I think of that last fight of his’n, and the way 
it turned out. 

“Well, thish-yer Smiley had rat-tarriers, and 
chicken cocks, and tomcats, and all them kind of 
things, till you couldn’t rest, and you couldn’t fetch 
nothing for him to bet on but he’d match you. He 
ketched a frog one day, and took him home, and said 
he cal’lated to educate him ; and so he never done noth- 
ing for three months but set in his back yard and learn 
that frog to jump. And you bet you he did learn him, 
too. He’d give him a little punch behind, and the next 
minute you’d see that frog whirling in the air like a 
doughnut — see him turn one summerset, or maybe a 
couple, if he got a good start, and come down flat- 
footed and all right, like a cat. He got him up so 
in the matter of ketching flies, and kep’ him in practice 
160 


THE JUMPING FROG 

so constant, that he’d nail a fly every time as fur as he 
could see him. Smiley said all a frog wanted was 
education, and he could do ’most anything — and I 
believe him. Why, I’ve seen him set Dan’l Webster 
down here on this floor — Dan’l Webster was the name 
of the frog — and sing out, ‘Flies, Dan’l, flies!’ and 
quicker’n you could wink he’d spring straight up and 
snake a fly off’n the counter there, and flop down on 
the floor ag’in as solid as a gob of mud, and fall to 
scratching the side of his head with his hind foot as 
indifferent as if he hadn’t no idea he’d been doin’ any 
more’n any frog might do. You never see a frog 
so modest and straightfor’ard as he was, for all he was 
so gifted. And when it come to fair and square 
jumping on a dead level, he could get over more 
ground at one straddle than any animal of his breed 
you ever see. Jumping on a dead level was his strong 
suit, you understand ; and when it come to that, Smiley 
would ante up money on him as long as he had a red. 
Smiley was monstrous proud of his frog, and well he 
might be, for fellers that had traveled and been 
everywheres all said he laid over any frog that ever 
they see. 

“Well, Smiley kep’ the beast in a little lattice box, 
and he used to fetch him down-town sometimes and lay 
for a bet. One day a feller — a stranger in the camp, 
he was — come acrost him with his box, and says : 

“ ‘What might it be that you’ve got in the box?’ 

“And Smiley says, sorter indifferent-like : ‘It might 
161 


THE BOY SCOUTS BOOK OF STORIES 


be a parrot, or it might be a canary, maybe, but it ain’t 
— it’s only just a frog.’ 

“And the feller took it, and looked at it careful, 
and turned it round this way and that, and says: 
‘H’m — so ’tis. Well, what’s he good for?’ 

“ ‘Well/ Smiley says, easy and careless, ‘he’s good 
enough for one thing, I should judge — he can out jump 
any frog in Calaveras county.’ 

“The feller took the box again, and took another 
long, particular look, and give it back to Smiley, and 
says, very deliberate, ‘Well,’ he says, ‘I don’t see no 
p’ints about that frog that’s any better’n any other 
frog/ 

“ ‘Maybe you don’t/ Smiley says. ‘Maybe you 
understand frogs and maybe you don’t understand 
’em; maybe you’ve had experience, and maybe you 
ain’t only a amature, as it were. Anyways, I’ve got 
my opinion, and I’ll resk forty dollars that he can out- 
jump any frog in Calaveras county/ 

“And the feller studied a minute, and then says, 
kinder sad like, ‘Well, I’m only a stranger here, and 
I ain’t got no frog; but if I had a frog, I’d bet you.’ 

“And then Smiley says, ‘That’s all right — that’s 
all right — if you hold my box a minute, I’ll go and get 
you a frog/ And so the feller took the box, and put 
up his forty dollars along with Smiley’s, and set down 
to wait. 

“So he set there a good while thinking and think- 
ing to hisself, and then he got the frog out and prized 
162 


THE JUMPING FROG 

his mouth open and took a teaspoon and filled him full 
of quail shot — filled him pretty near up to his chin 
— and set him on the floor. Smiley he went to the 
swamp and slopped around in the mud for a long time, 
and finally he ketched a frog, and fetched him in, and 
give him to this feller, and says: 

“ ‘Now, if you’re ready, set him alongside of Dan’l, 
with his forepaws just even with DanTs, and I’ll give 
the word.’ Then he says, ‘One — two — three — git! 1 
and him and the feller touched up the frogs from be- 
hind, and the new frog hopped off lively, but Dan’l 
give a heave, and hysted up his shoulders — so — like a 
Frenchman, but it warn’t no use — he couldn’t budge; 
he was planted as solid as a church, and he couldn’t 
no more stir than if he was anchored out. Smiley 
was a good deal surprised, and he was disgusted too, 
but he didn’t have no idea what the matter was, of 
course. 

“The feller took the money and started away; and 
when he was going out at the door, he sorter jerked 
his thumb over his shoulder — so — at Dan’l, and says 
again, very deliberate, ‘Well,’ he says, 7 don’t see no 
p’ints about that frog that’s any better’n any other 
frog.’ 

“Smiley he stood scratching his head and looking 
down at Dan’l a long time, and at last he says, ‘I do 
wonder what in the nation that frog throw’d off for — 
I wonder if there ain’t something the matter with 
him — he ’pears to look mighty baggy, somehow.’ And 
163 


THE BOY SCOUTS BOOK OF STORIES 


he ketched Dan’l by the nap of the neck, and hefted 
him, and says, ‘Why, blame my cats if he don’t weigh 
five pound!’ and turned him upside down and he 
belched out a double handful of shot. And then he 
see how it was, and he was the maddest man — he set 
the frog down and took out after that feller, but he 
never ketched him. And ” 

[Here Simon Wheeler heard his name called from 
the front yard, and got up to see what was wanted.] 
And turning to me as he moved away, he said : “Just 
set where you are, stranger, and rest easy — I ain’t 
going to be gone a second.” 

But, by your leave, I did not think that a continua- 
tion of the history of the enterprising vagabond Jim 
Smiley would be likely to afford me much information 
concerning the Rev. Leonidas W. Smiley, and so I 
started away. 

At the door I met the sociable Wheeler returning, 
and he button-holed me and re-commenced: 

“Well, thish-yer Smiley had a yeller one-eyed cow 
that didn’t have no tail, only just a short stump like 
a bananner, and ” 

However, lacking both time and inclination, I did 
not wait to hear about the afflicted cow, but took my 
leave. 


( 



IX. — Bingism* 

By Booth Tarkington 

P ENROD SCHOFIELD, having been “kept in” 
for that unjust period of twenty minutes after 
school, emerged to a deserted street. That is, 
the street was deserted so far as Penrod was con- 
cerned. Here and there people were to be seen upon 
the sidewalks, but they were adults, and they and 
the shade trees had about the same quality of signifi- 
cance in Penrod’s consciousness. Usually he saw 
grown people in the mass, which is to say, they were 
virtually invisible to him, though exceptions must be 
taken in favor of policemen, firemen, street-car con- 
ductors, motormen, and all other men in any sort of 

* Reprinted by special permission from “Penrod and Sam.” 
Copyright, 1916, by Doubleday, Page and Company. 

165 


THE BOY SCOUTS BOOK OF STORIES 


uniform or regalia. But this afternoon none of these 
met the roving eye, and Penrod set out upon his home- 
ward way wholly dependent upon his own resources. 

To one of Penrod’s inner texture, a mere unadorned 
walk from one point to another was intolerable, and 
he had not gone a block without achieving some slight 
remedy for the tameness of life. An electric-light 
pole at the corner, invested with powers of observa- 
tion, might have been surprised to find itself suddenly 
enacting a role of dubious honor in improvised melo- 
drama. Penrod, approaching, gave the pole a look 
of sharp suspicion, then one of conviction; slapped it 
lightly and contemptuously with his open hand ; passed 
on a few paces, but turned abruptly, and, pointing his 
right forefinger, uttered the symbolic word, “Bing!” 

The plot was somewhat indefinite; yet nothing is 
more certain than that the electric-light pole had first 
attempted something against him, then growing bitter 
when slapped, and stealing after him to take him 
treacherously in the back, had got itself shot through 
and through by one too old in such warfare to be 
caught off his guard. 

Leaving the body to lie where it was, he placed the 
smoking pistol in a holster at his saddlebow — he had 
decided that he was mounted — and proceeded up the 
street. At intervals he indulged himself in other en- 
counters, reining in at first suspicion of ambush with 
a muttered, “Whoa, Charlie!” or “Whoa, Mike!” or 
even “Whoa, Washington!” for preoccupation with 
1 66 


BINGISM 


the enemy outweighed attention to the details of 
theatrical consistency, though the steed’s varying 
names were at least harmoniously masculine, since a 
boy, in these creative moments, never rides a mare. 
And having brought Charlie or Mike or Washington 
to a standstill, Penrod would draw the sure weapon 
from its holster and — “Bing! Bing! Bing!” — let them 
have it. 

It is not to be understood that this was a noisy 
performance, or even an obvious one. It attracted 
no attention from any pedestrian, and it was to be 
perceived only that a boy was proceeding up the 
street at a somewhat irregular gait. Three or four 
years earlier, when Penrod was seven or eight, he 
would have shouted “Bing!” at the top of his voice; 
he would have galloped openly; all the world might 
have seen that he bestrode a charger. But a change 
had come upon him with advancing years. Although 
the grown people in sight were indeed to him as walk- 
ing trees, his dramas were accomplished principally 
by suggestion and symbol. His “Whoas” and 
“Bings” were delivered in a husky whisper, and his 
equestrianism was established by action mostly of the 
mind, the accompanying artistry of the feet being 
unintelligible to the passerby. 

And yet, though he concealed from observation 
the stirring little scenes he thus enacted, a love of 
realism was increasing within him. Early childhood 
is not fastidious about the accessories of its drama — 


THE BOY SCOUTS BOOK OF STORIES 


a cane is vividly a gun which may instantly, as vividly, 
become a horse; but at Penrod’s time of life the lath 
sword is no longer satisfactory. Indeed, he now 
had a vague sense that weapons of wood were un- 
worthy to the point of being contemptible and ridicu- 
lous, and he employed them only when he was alone 
and unseen. For months a yearning had grown more 
and more poignant in his vitals, and this yearning 
was symbolized by one of his most profound secrets. 
In the inner pocket of his jacket he carried a bit of 
wood whittled into the distant likeness of a pistol, 
but not even Sam Williams had seen it. The wooden 
pistol never knew the light of day, save when Penrod 
was in solitude; and yet it never left his side except 
at night, when it was placed under his pillow. Still, 
it did not satisfy; it was but the token of his yearn- 
ing and his dream. With all his might and main 
Penrod longed for one thing beyond all others. He 
wanted a Real Pistol! 

That was natural. Pictures of real pistols being 
used to magnificently romantic effect were upon al- 
most all the billboards in town, the year round; and 
as for the “movie” shows, they could not have lived 
an hour unpistoled. In the drug store, where Penrod 
bought his candy and soda when he was in funds, 
he would linger to turn the pages of periodicals 
whose illustrations were fascinatingly pistolic. Some 
of the magazines upon the very library table at home 
were sprinkled with pictures of people (usually in 
1 68 


BINGISM 


evening clothes) pointing pistols at other people. Nay, 
the Library Board of the town had emitted a “Selected 
List of Fifteen Books for Boys,” and Penrod had read 
fourteen of them with pleasure, but as the fifteenth 
contained no weapons in the earlier chapters and held 
forth little prospect of any shooting at all, he 
abandoned it halfway, and read the most sanguinary 
of the other fourteen over again. So, the daily food 
of his imagination being gun, what wonder that he 
thirsted for the Real! 

He passed from the sidewalk into his own yard, 
with a subdued “Bing‘” inflicted upon the stolid per- 
son of a gatepost, and, entering the house through 
the kitchen, ceased to bing for a time. However, 
driven back from the fore part of the house by a 
dismal sound of callers, he returned to the kitchen 
and sat down. 

“Della,” he said to the cook, “do you know what 
I’d do if you was a crook and I had my ottomatic 
with me?” 

Della was industrious and preoccupied. “If I was 
a cook!” she repeated ignorantly, and with no cor- 
diality. “Well, I aw a cook. I’m a-cookin’ right 
now. Either g’wan in the house where y’b’long, or 
git out in th’ yard!” 

Penrod chose the latter, and betook himself slowly 
to the back fence, where he was greeted in a boister- 
ous manner by his wistful little old dog, Duke, re- 
turning from some affair of his own in the alley. 

169 


THE BOY SCOUTS BOOK OF STORIES 


“Get down!” said Penrod coldly, and bestowed a 
spiritless “Bing!” upon him. 

At this moment a shout was heard from the alley, 
“Yay, Penrod!” and the sandy head of comrade Sam 
Williams appeared above the fence. 

“Come on over,” said Penrod. 

As Sam obediently climbed the fence, the little 
old dog, Duke, moved slowly away, but presently, 
glancing back over his shoulder and seeing the two 
boys standing together, he broke into a trot and dis- 
appeared round a corner of the house. He was a dog 
of long and enlightening experience; and he made it 
clear that the conjunction of Penrod and Sam por- 
tended events which, from his point of view, might 
be unfortunate. Duke had a forgiving disposition, 
but he also possessed a melancholy wisdom. In the 
company of either Penrod or Sam, alone, affection 
often caused him to linger, albeit with a little pes- 
simism, but, when he saw them together, he invariably 
withdrew in as unobtrusive a manner as haste would 
allow. 

“What you doin’ ?” Sam asked. 

“Nothin’. What you?” 

“I’ll show you if you’ll come over to our house,” 
said Sam, who was wearing an important and secre- 
tive expression. 

“What for?” Penrod showed little interest. 

“Well, I said I’d show you if you came on over, 
didn’t I?” 


170 


BINGISM 


“But you haven’t got anything I haven’t got,” said 
Penrod indifferently. “I know everything that’s in 
your yard and in your stable, and there isn’t a 
thing ” 

“I didn’t say it was in the yard or in the stable, 
did I?” 

“Well, there ain’t anything in your house,” re- 
turned Penrod frankly, “that I’d walk two feet to 
look at — not a thing!” 

“Oh, no!” Sam assumed mockery. “Oh, no, you 
wouldn’t! You know what it is, don’t you? Yes, 
you do!” 

Penrod’s curiosity stirred somewhat. 

“Well, all right,” he said, “I got nothin’ to do. I 
just as soon go. What is it?” 

“You wait and see,” said Sam, as they climbed the 
fence. “I bet your ole eyes’ll open pretty far in about 
a minute or so!” 

“I bet they don’t. It takes a good deal to get me 
excited, unless it’s sumpthing mighty ” 

“You’ll see !” Sam promised. 

He opened an alley gate and stepped into his own 
yard in a manner signaling caution — though the ex- 
ploit, thus far, certainly required none — and Penrod 
began to be impressed and hopeful. They entered the 
house, silently, encountering no one, and Sam led the 
way upstairs, tiptoeing, implying unusual and increas- 
ing peril. Turning, in the upper hall, they went into 
Sam’s father’s bedroom, and Sam closed the door with 
171 


THE BOY SCOUTS BOOK OF STORIES 


a caution so genuine that already Penrod’s eyes began 
to fulfill his host’s prediction. Adventures in another 
boy’s house are trying to the nerves ; and another boy’s 
father’s bedroom, when invaded, has a violated sanc- 
tity that is almost appalling. Penrod felt that some- 
thing was about to happen — something much more 
important than he had anticipated. 

Sam tiptoed across the room to a cnest of drawers, 
and, kneeling, carefully pulled out the lowest drawer 
until the surface of its contents — Mr. Williams’ winter 
underwear — lay exposed. Then he fumbled beneath 
the garments and drew forth a large object, displaying 
it triumphantly to the satisfactorily dumbfounded 
Penrod. 

It was a blue-steel Colt’s revolver, of the heaviest 
pattern made in the Seventies. Mr. Williams had 
inherited it from Sam’s grandfather (a small man, a 
deacon, and dyspeptic) and it was larger and more 
horrible than any revolver either of the boys had ever 
seen in any picture, moving or stationary. Moreover, 
greenish bullets of great size were to be seen in the 
chambers of the cylinder, suggesting massacre rather 
than mere murder. This revolver was Real and it was 
Loaded ! 

Both boys lived breathlessly through a magnificent 
moment. 

“Leave me have it!” gasped Penrod. “Leave me 
have hold of it!” 


172 


BINGISM 


“You wait a minute !” Sam protested, in a whisper. 
“I want to show you how I do.” 

“No; you let me show you how I do!” Penrod in- 
sisted ; and they scuffled for possession. 

“Look out !” Sam whispered warningly. “It might 
go off.” 

“Then you better leave me have it!” And Pen- 
rod, victorious and flushed, stepped back, the weapon 
in his grasp. “Here,” he said, “this is the way I do: 
You be a crook; and suppose you got a dagger, and 
I ” 

“I don’t want any dagger,” Sam protested, advanc- 
ing. “I want that revolaver. It’s my father’s re- 
volver, ain’t it?” 

“Well, wait a minute, can’t you? I got a right to 
show you the way I do , first, haven’t I ?” Penrod be- 
gan an improvization on the spot. “Say I’m cornin’ 
along after dark like this — look, Sam! And say you 
try to make a jump at me ” 

“I won’t!” Sam declined this role impatiently. 
“I guess it ain’t your father’s revolaver, is it?” 

“Well, it may be your father’s but it ain’t yours,” 
Penrod argued, becoming logical. “It ain’t either’s 
of us revolaver, so I got as much right ” 

“You haven’t either. It’s my fath ” 

“Watch, can’t you — just a minute!” Penrod urged 
vehemently. “I’m not goin’ to keep it, am I? You 
can have it when I get through, can’t you? Here’s 
173 


THE BOY SCOUTS BOOK OF STORIES 


how I do: I’m cornin’ along after dark, just walkin’ 
along this way — like this — look, Sam!” 

Penrod, suiting the action to the word, walked to 
the other end of the room, swinging the revolver at 
his side with affected carelessness. 

“I’m just walkin’ along like this, and first I don’t 
see you,” continued the actor. “Then I kind of get 

a notion sumpthing wrong’s liable to happen, so I 

No!” He interrupted himself abruptly. “No; that 
isn’t it. You wouldn’t notice that I had my good ole 
revolaver with me. You wouldn’t think I had one, 
because it’d be under my coat like this, and you 
wouldn’t see it.” Penrod stuck the muzzle of the 
pistol into the waistband of his knickerbockers at the 
left side and, buttoning his jacket, sustained the wea- 
pon in concealment by pressure of his elbow. “So 
you think I haven’t got any; you think I’m just a man 
cornin’ along, and so you ” 

Sam advanced. “Well, you’ve had your turn,” he 
said. “Now, it’s mine. I’m goin’ to show you how 
I ” 

“Watch me, can’t you?” Penrod wailed. “I haven’t 
showed you how I do, have I ? My goodness ! Can’t 
you watch me a minute?” 

“I have been! You said yourself it’d be my turn 
soon as you ” 

“My goodness ! Let me have a chance, can’t you ?” 
Penrod retreated to the wall, turning his right side 
toward Sam and keeping the revolver still protected 
174 


BINGISM 

under his coat. “I got to have my turn first, haven’t 
I?” 

“Well, yours is over long ago. ,, 

“It isn’t either! I ” 

“Anyway,” said Sam decidedly, clutching him by 
the right shoulder and endeavoring to reach his left 
side — “anyway, I’m goin’ to have it now.” 

“You said I could have my turn out!” Penrod, 
carried away by indignation, raised his voice. 

“I did not!” Sam, likewise lost to caution, as- 
serted his denial loudly. 

“You did, too.” 

“You said ” 

“I never said anything!” 

“You said Quit that!” 

“Boys!” Mrs. Williams, Sam’s mother, opened 
the door of the room and stood upon the threshold. 
The scuffling of Sam and Penrod ceased instantly, 
and they stood hushed and stricken, while fear fell 
upon them. “Boys, you weren’t quarreling, were 
you ?” 

“Ma’am?” said Sam. 

“Were you quarreling with Penrod?” 

“No, ma’am,” answered Sam in a small voice. 

“It sounded like it. What was the matter?” 

Both boys returned her curious glance with meek- 
ness. They were summoning their faculties — which 
were needed. Indeed, these are the crises which pre- 
pare a boy for the business difficulties of his later life. 
175 


THE BOY SCOUTS BOOK OF STORIES 

Penrod, with the huge weapon beneath his jacket, 
insecurely supported by an elbow and by a waistband 
which he instantly began to distrust, experienced dis- 
tressful sensations similar to those of the owner of 
too heavily insured property carrying a gasoline can 
under his overcoat and detained for conversation by 
a policeman. And if, in the coming years, it was to 
be Penrod’s lot to find himself in that precise situa- 
tion, no doubt he would be the better prepared for it 
on account of this present afternoon’s experience 
under the scalding eye of Mrs. Williams. It should 
be added that Mrs. Williams’s eye was awful to the 
imagination only. It was a gentle eye and but mildly 
curious, having no remote suspicion of the dreadful 
truth, for Sam had backed upon the chest of drawers 
and closed the damnatory open one with the calves of 
his legs. 

Sam, not bearing the fatal evidence upon his person, 
was in a better state than Penrod, though when boys 
fall into the stillness now assumed by these two, it 
should be understood that they are suffering. Pen- 
rod, in fact, was the prey to apprehension so keen that 
the actual pit of his stomach was cold. 

Being the actual custodian of the crime, he under- 
stood that his case was several degrees more serious 
than that of Sam, who, in the event of detection, 
would be convicted as only an accessory. It was a 
lesson, and Penrod already repented his selfishness in 
not allowing Sam to show how he did, first. 

176 


BINGISM 

“ You’ re sure you weren’t quarreling, Sam?” said 
Mrs. Williams. 

“No, ma’am; we were just talking.” 

Still she seemed dimly uneasy, and her eyes swung 
to Penrod. 

“What were you and Sam talking about, Penrod?” 

“Ma’am?” 

“What were you talking about?” 

Penrod gulped invisibly. 

“Well,” he murmured, “it wasn’t much. Different 
things.” 

“What things?” 

“Oh, just sumpthing. Different things.” 

“Pm glad you weren’t quarreling,” said Mrs. Wil- 
iams, reassured by this reply, which, though somewhat 
baffling, was thoroughly familiar to her ear. “Now, 
if you’ll come downstairs, I’ll give you each one cookie 
and no more, so your appetites won’t be spoiled for 
your dinners.” 

She stood, evidently expecting them to precede her. 
To linger might renew vague suspicion, causing it to 
become more definite; and boys preserve themselves 
from moment to moment, not often attempting to 
secure the future. Consequently, the apprehensive 
Sam and the unfortunate Penrod (with the monstrous 
implement bulking against his ribs) walked out of the 
room and down the stairs, their countenances indicat- 
ing an interior condition of solemnity. And a curious 
shade of behavior might have here interested a crim- 
1 77 


THE BOY SCOUTS BOOK OF STORIES 

inologist. Penrod endeavored to keep as close to 
Sam as possible, like a lonely person seeking company, 
while, on the other hand, Sam kept moving away from 
Penrod, seeming to desire an appearance of aloofness. 

“Go into the library, boys,” said Mrs. Williams, 
as the three reached the foot of the stairs. “I’ll bring 
you your cookies. Papa’s in there.” 

Under her eye the two entered the library, to find 
Mr. Williams reading his evening paper. He looked 
up pleasantly, but it seemed to Penrod that he had an 
ominous and penetrating expression. 

“What have you been up to, you boys?” inquired 
this enemy. 

“Nothing,” said Sam. “Different things.” 

“What like?” 

“Oh — just different things.” 

Mr. Williams nodded; then his glance rested cas- 
ually upon Penrod. 

“What’s the matter with your arm, Penrod?” 

Penrod became paler, and Sam withdrew from him 
almost conspicuously. 

“Sir?” 

“I said, What’s the matter with your arm?” 

“Which one?” Penrod quavered. 

“Your left. You seem to be holding it in an un- 
natural position. Have you hurt it?” 

Penrod swallowed. “Yes, sir. A boy bit me — I 
mean a dog — a dog bit me.” 

178 


BINGISM 


Mr. Williams murmured sympathetically: “That's 
too bad ! Where did he bite you ?” 

“On the — right on the elbow.” 

“Good gracious! Perhaps you ought to have it 
cauterized.” 

“Sir?” 

“Did you have a doctor look at it?” 

“No, sir. My mother put some stuff from the drug 
store on it.” 

“Oh, I see. Probably it’s all right, then.” 

“Yes, sir.” Penrod drew breath more freely, and 
accepted the warm cookie Mrs. Williams brought him. 
He ate it without relish. 

“You can have only one apiece,” she said. “It's 
too near dinner-time. You needn’t beg for any more, 
because you can’t have ’em.” 

They were good about that; they were in no frame 
of digestion for cookies. 

“Was it your own dog that bit you?” Mr. Williams 
inquired. 

“Sir? No, sir. It wasn’t Duke.” 

“Penrod!” Mrs. Williams exclaimed. “When did 
it happen?” 

“I don’t remember just when,” he answered feebly. 
“I guess it was day before yesterday.” 

“Gracious! How did it ” 

“He — he just came up and bit me.” 

“Why, that’s terrible! It might be dangerous for 
other children,” said Mrs. Williams, with a solicitous 
179 


THE BOY SCOUTS BOOK OF STORIES 


glance at Sam. “Don’t you know whom he belongs 
to?” 

“No’m. It was just a dog.” 

“You poor boy! Your mother must have been 
dreadfully frightened when you came home and she 


She was interrupted by the entrance of a middle- 
aged colored woman. “Miz Williams,” she began, 
and then, as she caught sight of Penrod, she addressed 
him directly, “You’ ma telefoam if you here, send you 
home right away, ’cause they waitin’ dinner on you.” 

“Run along, then,” said Mrs. Williams, patting 
the visitor lightly upon his shoulder; and she ac- 
companied him to the front door. “Tell your mother 
I’m so sorry about your getting bitten, and you must 
take good care of it, Penrod.” 

“Yes’m.” 

Penrod lingered helplessly outside the doorway, 
looking at Sam, who stood partially obscured in the 
hall, behind Mrs. Williams. Penrod’s eyes, with a 
veiled anguish, conveyed a pleading for help as well 
as a horror of the position in which he found himself. 
Sam, however, pale and determined, seemed to have 
assumed a stony attitude of detachment, as if it were 
well understood between them that his own compara- 
tive innocence was established, and that whatever 
catastrophe ensued, Penrod had brought it on and must 
bear the brunt of it alone. 

“Well, you’d better run along, since they’re wait- 
180 


BINGISM 


mg for you at home,” said Mrs. Williams, closing 
the door. “Good-night, Penrod.” 

... Ten minutes later Penrod took his place at his 
own dinner-table, somewhat breathless but with an 
expression of perfect composure. 

“Can't you ever come home without being tele- 
phoned for?” demanded his father. 

“Yes, sir.” And Penrod added reproachfully, 
placing the blame upon members of Mr. Schofield’s 
own class, “Sam’s mother and father kept me, or I’d 
been home long ago. They would keep on talkin’, 
and I guess I had to be polite , didn’t I ?” 

His left arm was as free as his right; there was no 
dreadful bulk beneath his jacket, and at Penrod’s 
age the future is too far away to be worried about. 
The difference between temporary security and per- 
manent security is left for grown people. To Penrod, 
security was security, and before his dinner was half 
eaten his spirit had become fairly serene. 

Nevertheless, when he entered the empty carriage- 
house of the stable, on his return from school the 
next afternoon, his expression was not altogether 
without apprehension, and he stood in the doorway 
looking well about him before he lifted a loosened 
plank in the flooring and took from beneath it the 
grand old weapon of the Williams family. Nor did 
his eye lighten with any pleasurable excitement as 
he sat himself down in a shadowy corner and began 
some sketchy experiments with the mechanism. The 
181 


THE BOY SCOUTS BOOK OF STORIES 

allure of first sight was gone. In Mr. Williams’ bed- 
chamber, with Sam clamoring for possession, it had 
seemed to Penrod that nothing in the world was so 
desirable as to have that revolver in his own hands — 
it was his dream come true. But, for reasons not 
definitely known to him, the charm had departed; he 
turned the cylinder gingerly, almost with distaste ; and 
slowly there stole over him a feeling that there was 
something repellent and threatening in the heavy blue 
steel. 

Thus does the long-dreamed Real misbehave — not 
only for Penrod! 

More out of a sense of duty to bingism in general 
than for any other reason, he pointed the revolver 
at the lawn-mower, and gloomingly murmured, 
“Bing!” 

Simultaneously, a low and cautious voice sounded 
from the yard outside, “Yay, Penrod !” and Sam Wil- 
liams darkened the doorway, his eye falling instantly 
upon the weapon in his friend’s hand. Sam seemed 
relieved to see it. 

“You didn’t get caught with it, did you?” he said 
hastily. 

Penrod shook his head, rising. 

“I guess not! I guess I got some brains around 
me,” he added, inspired by Sam’s presence to assume 
a slight swagger. “They’d have to get up pretty early 
to find any good ole revolaver, once I got my hands 
on it!” 


BINGXSM 


“I guess we can keep it, all right,” Sam said con- 
fidentially. “Because this morning papa was putting 
on his winter underclothes and he found it wasn’t 
there, and they looked all over and everywhere, and 
he was pretty mad, and said he knew it was those 
cheap plumbers stole it that mamma got instead of the 
regular plumbers he always used to have, and he said 
there wasn’t any chance ever gettin’ it back, because 
you couldn’t tell which one took it, and they’d all swear 
it wasn’t them. So it looks like we could keep it for 
our revolaver, Penrod, don’t it? I’ll give you half 
of it.” 

Penrod affected some enthusiasm. “Sam, we’ll 
keep it out here in the stable.” 

“Yes, and we’ll go huntin’ with it. We’ll do lots 
of things with it !” But Sam made no effort to take 
it, and neither boy seemed to feel yesterday’s necessity 
to show the other how he did. “Wait till next Fourth 
o’ July!” Sam continued. “Oh, oh! Look out!” 

This incited a genuine spark from Penrod. 

“Fourth o’ July! I guess she’ll be a little better 
than any firecrackers! Just a little ‘Bing! Bing! 
Bing !’ she’ll be goin’. ‘Bing ! Bing ! Bing !’ ” 

The suggestion of noise stirred his comrade. “I’ll 
bet she’ll go off louder’n that time the gas-works blew 
up! I wouldn’t be afraid to shoot her off any time.” 

“I bet you would,” said Penrod. “You aren’t used 
to revolavers the way I ” 

“You aren’t, either !” Sam exclaimed promptly. “I 

183 


THE BOY SCOUTS BOOK OF STORIES 


wouldn’t be any more afraid to shoot her off than you 
would.” 

“You would, too!” 

“I would not!” 

“Well, let’s see you then; you talk so much!” And 
Penrod handed the weapon scornfully to Sam, who at 
once became less self-assertive. 

“I’d shoot her off in a minute,” Sam said, “only 
it might break sumpthing if it hit it.” 

“Hold her up in the air, then. It can’t hurt the 
roof, can it?” 

Sam, with a desperate expression, lifted the re- 
volver at arm’s length. Both boys turned away their 
heads, and Penrod put his fingers in his ears — but 
nothing happened. “What’s the matter?” he de- 
manded. “Why don’t you go on if you’re goin’ to?” 

Sam lowered his arm. “I guess I didn’t have her 
cocked,” he said apologetically, whereupon Penrod 
loudly jeered. 

“Tryin’ to shoot a revolaver and didn’t know 
enough to cock her ! If I didn’t know any more about 
revolavers than that, I’d ” 

“There!” Sam exclaimed, managing to draw back 
the hammer until two chilling clicks warranted his 
opinion that the pistol was now ready to perform its 
office. “I guess she’ll do all right to suit you this 
time!” 

“Well, why’n’t you go ahead, then; you know so 
much!” And as Sam raised his arm, Penrod again 

184 


BINGISM 

turned away his head and placed his forefingers in 
his ears. 

A pause followed. 

“Why’n’t you go ahead?” 

Penrod, after waiting in keen suspense, turned to 
behold his friend standing with his right arm above 
his head, his left hand over his left ear, and both eyes 
closed. 

“I can’t pull the trigger,” said Sam indistinctly, his 
face convulsed as in sympathy with the great muscular 
efforts of other parts of his body. “She won’t pull!” 

“She won’t?” Penrod remarked with scorn. “I’ll 
bet I could pull her.” 

Sam promptly opened his eyes and handed the 
weapon to Penrod. 

“All right,” he said, with surprising and unusual 
mildness. “You try her, then.” 

Inwardly discomfited to a disagreeable extent, Pen- 
rod attempted to talk his own misgivings out of 
countenance. 

“Poor ’ittle baby!” he said, swinging the pistol 
at his side with a fair pretense of careless ease. “Ain’t 
even strong enough to pull a trigger! Poor ’ittle 
baby! Well, if you can’t even do that much, you 
better watch me while I ” 

“Well,” said Sam reasonably, “why don’t you go 
on and do it then?” 

“Well, I am goin’ to, ain’t I?” 

“Well, then, why don’t you?” 

185 


THE BOY SCOUTS BOOK OF STORIES 

“Oh, I’ll do it fast enough to suit you, I guess,” 
Penrod retorted, swinging the big revolver up a little 
higher than his shoulder and pointing it in the direc- 
tion of the double doors, which opened upon the alley. 
“You better run, Sam,” he jeered. “You’ll be pretty 
scared when I shoot her off, I guess.” 

. “Well, why don’t you see if I will? I bet you’re 
afraid yourself.” 

“Oh, I am, am I ?” said Penrod, in a reckless voice 
— and his finger touched the trigger. It seemed to 
him that his finger no more than touched it; perhaps 
he had been reassured by Sam’s assertion that the 
trigger was difficult. His intentions must remain in 
doubt, and probably Penrod himself was not certain 
of them; but one thing comes to the surface as en- 
tirely definite — that trigger was not so hard to pull as 
Sam said it was. 

Bang! Wh-a~a-ack. A shattering report split the 
air of the stable and there was an orifice of remark- 
able diameter in the alley door. With these phenom- 
ena, three yells, expressing excitement of different 
kinds, were almost simultaneous — two from within 
the stable and the third from a point in the alley about 
eleven inches lower than the orifice just constructed 
in the planking of the door. This third point, roughly 
speaking, was the open mouth of a gayly dressed 
young colored man whose attention, as he strolled, 
had been thus violently distracted from some mental 
computations he was making in numbers, including, 
1 86 


BINGISM 


particularly, those symbols of ecstasy or woe, as the 
case might be, seven and eleven. His eye at once 
perceived the orifice on a line enervatingly little above 
the top of his head; and, although he had not sup- 
posed himself so well known in this neighborhood, 
he was aware that he did, here and there, possess ac- 
quaintances of whom some such uncomplimentary 
action might be expected as natural and characteristic. 
His immediate procedure was to prostrate himself 
flat upon the ground, against the stable doors. 

In so doing, his shoulders came brusquely in contact 
with one of them, which happened to be unfastened, 
and it swung open, revealing to his gaze two stark- 
white white boys, one of them holding an enormous 
pistol and both staring at him in stupor of ultimate 
horror. For, to the glassy eyes of Penrod and Sam, 
the stratagem of the young colored man, thus dropping 
to earth, disclosed, with awful certainty, a slaughtered 
body. 

This dreadful thing raised itself upon its elbows 
and looked at them, and there followed a motionless 
moment — a tableau of brief duration, for both boys 
turned and would have fled, shrieking, but the body 
spoke : 

“ ’At’s a nice business !” it said reproachfully. “Nice 
business! Tryin’ blow a man’s head off!” 

Penrod was unable to speak, but Sam managed to 
summon the tremulous semblance of a voice. 

“Where — where did it hit you?” he gasped. 

187 


THE BOY SCOUTS BOOK OF STORIES 


“Nemmine anything ’bout where it hit me,” the 
young colored man returned, dusting his breast and 
knees as he rose. “ I want to know what kine o’ white 
boys you think you is — man can’t walk ’long street 
’thout you blowin’ his head off!” He entered the 
stable and, with an indignation surely justified, took 
the pistol from the limp, cold hand of Penrod. 
“Whose gun you playin’ with? Where you git ’at 
gun?” 

“It’s ours,” quavered Sam. “It belongs to us.” 

“Then you’ pa ought to be ’rested,” said the young 
colored man. “Lettin’ boys play with gun!” He 
examined the revolver with an interest in which there 
began to appear symptoms of a pleasurable apprecia- 
tion. “My goo’ness! Gun like ’iss blow a team o’ 
steers thew a brick house! Look at ’at gun!” With 
his right hand he twirled it in a manner most dexter- 
ous and surprising; then suddenly he became severe. 
“You white boy, listen me!” he said. “Ef I went 
an did what I ought to did, I’d march straight out 
’iss stable, git a policeman, an’ tell him ’rest you an’ 
take you off to jail. ’At’s what you need — blowin’ 
man’s head off! Listen me: I’m goin’ take ’iss gun 
an’ th’ow her away where you can’t do no mo’ harm 
with her. I’m goin’ take her way off in the woods 
an’ th’ow her away where can’t nobody find her an’ 
go blowin’ man’s head off with her. ’At’s what I’m 
goin’ do!” And placing the revolver inside his coat 
as inconspicuously as possible, he proceeded to the 
1 88 


BINGISM 


open door and into the alley, where he turned for a 
final word. “I let you off ’iss one time,” he said, 
'‘but listen me — you listen, white boy : you bet' not tell 
you’ pa. I ain’ goin’ tell him, an’ you ain’ goin’ tell 
him. He want know where gun gone, you tell him 
you los’ her.” 

He disappeared rapidly. 

Sam Williams, swallowing continuously, presently 
walked to the alley door, and remarked in a weak 
voice, "I’m sick at my stummick.” He paused, then 
added more decidedly : "I’m goin’ home. I guess I’ve 
stood about enough around here for one day!” And 
bestowing a last glance upon his friend, who was now 
sitting dumbly upon the floor in the exact spot where 
he had stood to fire the dreadful shot, Sam moved 
slowly away. 

The early shades of autumn evening were falling 
when Penrod emerged from the stable; and a better 
light might have disclosed to a shrewd eye some in- 
dications that here was a boy who had been extremely, 
if temporarily, ill. He went to the cistern, and, after 
a cautious glance round the reassuring horizon, lifted 
the iron cover. Then he took from the inner pocket 
of his jacket an object which he dropped listlessly 
into the water: it was a bit of wood, whittled to the 
likeness of a pistol. And though his lips moved not, 
nor any sound issued from his vocal organs, yet were 
words formed. They were so deep in the person of 
Penrod they came almost from the slowly convalescing 
189 


THE BOY SCOUTS BOOK OF STORIES 

profundities of his stomach. These words concerned 
firearms, and they were: 

“Wish I’d never seen one ! 
again !” 


Never want to see one 



X. — Concho Curly at the Op'ra* 

By Edward Beecher Bronson 

E ARLY in July, 1882, I made my first beef ship- 
ment of that season, from Ogallala to Chicago. 
I sent Concho Curly ahead in charge of the 
first train-load, and myself followed with the second. 
While to me uneventful, for Curly the trip was big 
with interest. 

Bred and reared in Menard County, on a little tribu- 
tary of the Concho River that long stood the outer- 
most line of settlement in central west Texas, Curly 
was about as raw a product as the wildest mustang 
ranging his native hills. Seldom far off his home 

* Reprinted by special permission from “Reminiscences of a 
Ranchman.” Copyright, 1910, by George H. Doran Company. 

I 9 I 


THE BOY SCOUTS BOOK OF STORIES 


range before the preceding year's trail drive, never 
in a larger city than the then small town of Fort 
Worth, for Curly Chicago was nothing short of a 
wilderness of wonders. His two days' stay there left 
him awed and puzzled. 

It was the second morning of our return journey 
before I could get much out of him. Before that he 
had sat silent, in a brown study, answering only in 
monosyllables anything I said to him. 

At length, however, another friendly inquiry de- 
veloped what he was worrying about. 

“Come, come, Curly !” I said, “tell us what you saw. 
Had a good time, didn’t you?” 

“Wall, I should remark. Them short-horns is 
junin’ round so thick back thar a stray long-horn 
hain’t no sorta show to git to know straight up from 
sideways 'fore he gits plumb lost in them deep canons 
whar all th’ sign is tramped out an' thar’s no trees to 
blaze for back-tracking yourself. 

“What they-all gits to live on is the mysteriousest 
mystery to me; don’t raise or grow nothin’; got no 
grass, or cows to graze on her ef they had her. 'Course 
some of them’s got spondulix their daddies left them, 
an’ can buy; th’ rest — wall, mebbe so th’ rest is jest 
nachally cannibiles, an’ eats up each other.” 

And how nearly Curly was right about the “can- 
nibiles” — at least, metaphorically — he doubtless never 
learned. 

“But, Curly,” I asked, “didn’t you have any fun? 

192 


CONCHO CURLY AT THE OP’RA 

Must have hit up the theaters a few, didn’t you, eh !” 

“Wall, I should say I shore did,” he replied. “I 
shore went to a the-a-ter, but she didn’t get my funny- 
bone busy none.” 

“Why, Curly,” I asked, “how’s that?” 

“Wall, you see it’s thisaway. When you turned 
me loose down to th’ stockyards, I axed th’ commis- 
sion man what was th’ ring-tailedest lally-cooler of a 
hotel in town, an’ he tells me she’s th’ Palmer House. 

“Then I ropes a kid an’ hobbles him with four bits 
long enough to run me through th’ milling herd of 
short-horns as fer as th’ Palmer. 

“On th’ way I stops to a store an’ buys a new hat, 
an’ a pair o’ high-heel boots, an’ a new suit, shirt, an’ 
red handkerchief, an’ a little ol’ humany war sack with 
a handle on her, an’ inter her I puts my belt an’ spurs. 

“Then, when I gets fixed up jest like them city 
folks, I pikes along to th’ Palmer, an’ in I goes. 

“An’ she was a shore lally-cooler all right! More 
prittys about th’ fixin’ up o’ that house that Fd allowed 
anything, but a woman could pack. 

“Wall, when I got in I axed for Mr. Palmer, an’ 
a little feller in sorta soldier-brass-button-clothes runs 
me up to a little close pen with a fence round her 
slicker than airy bar in Fort Worth — all glass an’ 
shiny wood an’ dandy stones. In that thar pen was a 
quick-talkin’, smart-aleck feller, with a di’mond big 
as a engin’ head-light staked out in th’ middle of his 
bald-faced shirt. 


193 


THE BOY SCOUTS BOOK OF STORIES 


‘That feller shore rubbed my hair th’ wrong way 
th’ minute he shot his mouth off, with : 

“ ‘Wall, what kin I do for you, young feller ?’ 

“ ‘You cain’t do a ding thing for me, Mr. Man/ 
I ups an’ tells him. ‘Hain’t got nairy business with 
pikers like you-all. I don’t git to Chicago often, but 
when I do I plays with nothin’ but blue chips, an’ bets 
th’ limit every whirl.’ 

“ ‘Wall, what do you want, anyway?’ he jerks out 

“‘Want to see Mr. Palmer; got some p’rticulai 
business with him,’ says I. 

“ ‘Sorry, sir,’ says he, ‘Mr. Palmer ain’t around 
this time of day. Is your business with him private ?’ 

“ ‘I reckon she are private,’ says I ; ‘want to see 
him an’ find out ef I kin git to stay all night in this 
yere hotel of his’n.’ 

“An’ I reckon about that time that thar smart aleck 
must o’ thought of somethin’ powerful funny that’d 
happened lately, for right thar he broke out laughin’ 
fit to kill his fool self — jest nachally laughed till he 
like to died. 

“When finally he comes to, he up an’ says : 

“ ‘Why, I sometimes attend to business like that for 
Mr. Palmer; guess I can fix you. Here, write your 
name down there.’ 

“An’ he whirls round in front of me a whopper of 
a big book that ’peared to have a lot other fellers’ 
names in. She shore looked s’spicious to me, an’ I 
says: 


194 


CONCHO CURLY AT THE OP’RA 

“ ‘Now see here, Mr. Man, my name don’t draw no 
big lot of money, but she shorely don’t get fastened to 
any dociments I don’t sabe .’ 

“Then that blasted idiot thought o’ somethin’ else 
so plumb funny he lites in laughin’ agin till he nigh 
busts. 

“When he gits out o’ his system all -the laugh she 
cain’t hold easy, he tells me th’ big book is jest nothin’ 
but a tally they use to count you in when you comes 
to stay to th’ hotel an’ to count you out when you 
goes. 

“That didn’t look onreasonable none to me, so I 
says : 

“ ‘Son, she goes.’ 

“An’ when he hands me a writin’ tool, not noticin’ 
she wa’n’t a pencil, I sticks her in my mouth to git 
her ready to write good, an’ gits my dod-bumed mouth 
so full of ink I reckon ’tain’t all out yet; an’ while I 
was writin’ in th’ book, ‘Stonewall Jackson Kip, Dead- 
man Ranch, Nebraska,’ Mr. Man he slips off behind a 
big safe and empties out a few more laughs he couldn’t 
git to hold longer. 

“An’ does you know, ol’ man, this momin’ I been 
gittin’ a sort of a s’spicion that Palmer piker was 
laughin’ at me inkin’ my mouth, maybe ; blamed lucky 
I didn’t see it then, or I’d shore leaded him a few. 

“Wall, when Mr. Man had got done laminin’ my 
turkey tracks in the book, he gits a key an’ comes back, 
hits a bell, an’ hollers, ‘Front!’ Then, when one o’ 
195 


THE BOY SCOUTS BOOK OF STORIES 


them little soldier-button fellers comes runnin’, an* 
th’ piker passes him th’ key an’ sings out, ‘Gentleman 
to No. 1492!’ th’ kid he makes a dive for my war 
sack. But you bet your alee I grabs him pronto , an' 
says : 

“ ‘See here, son, they ain’t more’n about two mil- 
lion worth o’ valuables in that thar war sack, so I 
wouldn’t be broke none ef you ducked with her; but 
I reckon Stonewall’s strong enough to pack his’n with- 
out th’ help of no sawed-off like you-all.’ 

“Then Mr. Kid he up an’ chases me over to a rail- 
road car that’s built on tracks runnin’ straight up in 
th’ air plumb to th’ top of th’ house, an’ into her we 
gits — all free, you sabe ; didn’t have to buy no ticket. 

“Wall, sir, when th’ feller ridin’ her socked in 
th’ spurs, that thar car humped herself once or twice 
an’ then hit a gait that would make a U. P. ^.vpress 
look like she was standin’ still, an’ in less time than 
Nebo takes to draw a gun, thar we was at th’ top floor, 
about a mile higher, I reckon, than folks was ever 
meant to live. 

“An’ say! By cripes! when I come to look out 
o’ th’ winder in my room, I thought I’d have to stake 
myself to th’ bed to be safe. Lookin’ out was jest like 
lookin’ down from th’ top o’ Laramie Peak on th’ 
spread of th’ main range — little ol’ peaks an’ deep 
canons everywhere, with signal-fires throwin’ up 
smoke columns from every peak, like Injuns signalin' 
196 


CONCHO CURLY AT THE OP’RA 


news. She shore looked a rough country to try to 
make any short cuts across. 

'‘When I’d got washed up some, I sticks my gun 
in my waist-band an’ goes out an’ down to th’ ground 
on that little ol’ upstandin’ railroad, an’ axes one o’ 
them soldier boys th’ trail to the grub-pile. He grins 
some an’ takes me into a room so pow’ful big and 
crowded with folks I allowed ’bout everybody in 
town must be eatin’ there. 

“Soon as I got sot down, here comes a coon an’ 
hands me a printed sheet bigger’n th’ Llano Weekly 
Clarion. An’ when I told him I was much obliged, 
but I’d come to eat an’ not to read, blamed ef that 
thar coon didn’t think o’ somethin’ so funny he nigh 
split hisself. ’Pears like mos’ everybody has a most 
onusual lot of laugh in ’em back thar. 

“Wall, bein’ dod-burned hungry, an’ allowin’ I’d 
have a bang-up feed, an’ rememberin’ you Yankees 
talkin’ on th’ round-up ’bout what slick eatin’ lobsters 
makes, I tells th’ coon to bring me a dozen lobsters 
an’ a cup of coffee. 

“ ‘Wha-what’s dat you say, boss? How many lob- 
sters does you want?’ says th’ coon. 

“ ‘A plumb dozen, you black hash-slinger !’ says I, 
‘an’ hump yourself pronto , for my tape-worm’s hol- 
lerin’ for fodder.’ 

“Off slides Mr. Coon, lookin’ at me sorta scared- 
like outen th’ comer o’ his off eye, to the far end o’ 
th’ room. 


197 


THE BOY SCOUTS BOOK OF STORIES 


“Wall, thar I set for about twenty minutes, hopin’ 
lobsters was bigger’n oysters an’ wonderin’ ef I’d 
ordered enough to fill up me an’ th’ worm, when, 
lookin’ up, here comes up th’ room a p’rcession of 
twelve niggers, each nigger carryin’ a plate about half 
th’ size of a saddle-blanket, an’ on each plate a whale 
of a big red critter, most all laigs an’ claws, that 
looked like a overgrowed Gila monster with war-paint 
on. 

“An’ when th’ lead coon stops in front of me an’ 
says, ‘Here’s your dozen lobsters, sir,’ I jest nach- 
ally nigh fell dead right thar, knowin’ Stonewall was 
up agin it harder’n ever before in his life. 

“Say ! I never wanted a cayuse so bad in my life ; 
ef I had one I’d shore have skipped — forked him an’ 
split the scenery open gittin’ away from them war- 
painted animiles — but thar I was afoot ! 

“So I bunches up my nerve an’ says : 

“ ‘Say, coon, I done expected a bunch of th’ boys 
to feed with me, but they hain’t showed up. Me an’ 
th’ worm will tackle a pair of them red jaspers, an’ you 
fellers put the other ten where they cain’t git away till 
th’ boys comes.’ 

“Then, not lettin’ on to th’ city chaps settin’ an’ 
grinnin’ all round me that I wa’n’t raised in th’ same 
lot with lobsters, I takes mj knife an’ fork an’ lites 
in to go to eatin’, when I’ll just be eternally hanged 
if I didn’t nigh go crazy to find them critturs was jest 
nachally all hoofs an’ horns — nairy a place on ’em 
198 


CONCHO CURLY AT THE OP’RA 


from end to end airy human's jaws could ever git to 
feed on. 

“An’ I was about to jerk my gun an' shoot one apart 
to find out what his insides was like, when a feller 
settin’ next showed me how to knock th’ horns off an’ 
git at th’ meat proper. 

“Then me an’ th' worm got busy good an' plenty, 
for th' meat was sweeter an' tenderer even than 
'possum. 

“Before we got done we shore chambered five of 
them animiles, an’ when I paid th' bill an’ sashayed 
out, it was with reg rets I didn’t have my war sack 
handy to pack off th’ rest in. 

“Come evenin’, I moseyed up to Mr. Man’s pen an’ 
axed him what was th’ finest, highest-priced show in 
town, an’ he told me she was to a the-a-ter called th’ 
Op’ra. 

“So out I goes, an’ ropes another kid an’ gits him 
to steer me to her. 

“Arrived to th’ the-a-ter, I prances up to th’ ticket- 
wagon an’ says, sorta reckless: 

“ Tardner, jest hand me out a dociment for th’ best 
place to set in you got; price is no object. It’s th’ best 
in your show for Stonewall,’ privately allowin’ to my- 
self he might stick me up for as much as a dollar and 
a half. 

“At that he whispers to me. Twenty-five dollars,’ 
jest as easy an’ nat’rel, without turnin’ a hair or ap- 
199 


THE BOY SCOUTS BOOK OF STORIES 


pearin’ any more ^cited than Dune. Blackburn stick- 
ing up a stage-coach. 

“Twenty-fi-five plunks to git to set a hour or so 
to see a little oF fool play-actin’! I’ll just be horn- 
swiggled if that wa’n’t goin’ some for Stonewall! 
Nigh three weeks’ wages to git to ‘ante an’ come in,’ 
an’ no tellin’ what raises he’d have to stand after 
drawin’ cards! 

“However, allowin’ I’d take a chance, I skinned off 
five fives from my little ol’ bank-roll and passes ’em 
over to Mr. Holdup, an’ then he picks up an’ shuffles 
a deck of little cards an’ deals me off six of them. 

“Course I didn’t know whatever his game was, 
makin’ me a dead foul deal deliberate thataway, but 
knowin’ she spelled trouble, I shoves one of th’ cards 
back to him an’ says: 

“ ‘Mr. Holdup, I don’t know jest what liberties a 
gentleman is allowed to take with a deck back here, 
but out West whar I come from a feller caught in 
a pot with more’n five cards in his hand is generally 
buried th’ next day, an’ bein’ as all his business in this 
world ain’t quite settled yet, five cards will do your 
Uncle Stonewall.’ 

“Couldn’t make out anyway what he give me all 
them dociments for, unless one o’ th’ coons down to th’ 
hotel had tipped him off my bunch of lobster-eaters 
was liable to drop in an’ want to set with me. 

“Wall, then I dropped into th’ stream o’ folks 


200 


CONCHO CURLY AT THE OP’RA 

flowin’ in thro’ th’ door, all jammin’ an’ crowdin’ 
like a bunch of wild steers, an’ drifted inside. 

“Was you ever to that Op’ra The-a-ter, ol’ man? 
By cripes! but she was shore a honey-cooler for big! 
Honest, th’ main corral would hold a full trail herd 
of three thousand head easy. 

“Wall, when I gits in, a young feller in more soldier- 
buttons axes to see my cards, an’ then he steers me 
down thro’ a narrow chute runnin’ along one side of 
th’ big corral to a little close-pen, with a low fence in 
front, right down to one end of where they was play- 
actin’, an’ right atop of th’ band. 

“Dead opposite was a high stack of little pens like 
mine, all full of folks — same, I reckon, above me — an’ 
then back further three or four big pens, one above the 
other, over where you come in. 

“An’ mebbe so them pens wa’n’t packed none! 
Don’t believe thar was a empty corner anywhere ex- 
cept mine. Jest packed everywhere with men and 
women. 

“Th’ men all looked alike, an’ most of th’ women 
Stonewall could a liked. 

“Th’ men all had on black clothes, with bald-faced 
shirts to match their bald heads. 

“Th’ women — wall, the feller that couldn’t get suited 
in that bunch needn’t wear out no leather huntin’ round 
outside. An’ thar was a lot of them honey-coolers 
settin’ close round me that kept lookin’ up my way 


201 


THE BOY SCOUTS BOOK OF STORIES 


an’ laughin’ so sorta friendly like that it shore got 
to be real sociable. 

“Wall, sir, that band was playin’ to beat any band 
you ever heard — horns an’ fiddles an’ drums; horns 
that worked like a accordeon, pullin’ in an’ out; ol’ 
mossback he-fiddles that must a been more’n a hun- 
dred years old to git to grow so big ; drums with bellies 
big an’ round as your mammy’s soap kettle; an’ th’ 
boss music-maker on a perch in th’ middle of th’ 
bunch, shakin’ a little carajo pole to beat the brains 
out any of th’ outfit that wa’n’t workin’ to suit him. 

“Some of th’ tunes was sweet an’ slow enough so 
you could follow ’em afoot, but most of ’em was so 
fast a feller’d need to be runnin’ ’em on his top-cut- 
ting horse to git close enough to tell if they was real 
music or jest a hullabaloo big noise. 

“But what s’rprised me most, ol’ man, was to find 
that that thar the-a-ter was built up round one of the 
roughest, rockiest, wildest pieces of country I ever 
saw outside th’ Black Hills, it lay in’ in th’ end whar 
they was play-actin’. It shore looked like a side 
canon up nigh th’ head-waters of Rapid Creek, big 
boulders, an’ pines, an’ cliffs, an’ a fall carryin’ as 
much water as Deadman Creek. 

“An’ weather! Say, that little ol’ the-a-ter canon 
could put up a worse storm than you or me ever see 
in the Rockies. She was thunderin’ and lightenin’ till 
I was dead sure we was all in for a water-spout, an’ 
I reckon one must a come after I left. 


202 


CONCHO CURLY AT THE OP’RA 

“I always thought the-a-ters was built to be funny 
in, but that one was jest nachally full o’ hell’s own 
grief as long as I got to stay in her. Nothin’ doin’ 
but sufferin’ an’ murderin’ meanness. 

“Plumb alone, an’ lost in th’ canon, I reckon, was 
a pore little gal, ’bout sixteen year old, leanin’ on a 
stump close up to whar I was settin’, an’ sobbin’ fit 
to kill herself. She had ’bout next to nothin’ on, an’ 
was that ga’nted up an’ lean ’peared like she was nigh 
starved to death. 

“An’ thar she hung an’ cried an’ cried till it ’peared 
to me some o’ th’ women folks ought to a gone to 
her ; but they-all never noticed none, an’ went right on 
gassin’ with their fellers. 

“Finally, when she got so weak I thought she was 
goin’ to drop, out from behind a boulder slips a great 
big feller — all hair an’ whiskers but his laigs, for he 
had on nothin’ but a fur huntin’-shirt cornin’ half- 
way to his knees — an’ in his hand he carries a long 
bilduque skelping-knife. 

“ ’Fore I realized he meant trouble, he makes a 
jump an’ grabs th’ gal by th’ shoulder an’ shakes her 
scandalous, an’ while he’s shakin’ he’s sorta half-talkin’ 
an’ half-singin’ to her in some kind of talk so near like 
Spanish I thought I could ketch some of it. 

“By cripes ! but that feller was hot good an’ plenty 
over something he claimed she’d did. 

“An’ when, half-sobbin’ an’ singin’, she ’peared to 
be tellin’ him she hadn’t, an’ to go off an’ let her alone, 
203 


THE BOY SCOUTS BOOK OF STORIES 


he shook an’ abused her more’n ever, till it struck me 
it was about time for neighborin’ men folks to hop in 
an’ take a hand, for it was plumb plain she was a pore, 
sweet-faced, innercent little crittur that couldn’t done 
no harm to a hummin’ bird. 

“ ’Bout that time, Mr. Hairyman he hops back a 
step or two, stands an’ scowls an’ grits his teeth at 
th’ gal for a minute, an’ then he raises his knife, sorta 
crouches for a jump, an’ sings out, near as I could 
make it out : 

“ ‘ M audit e! Folle! Folle! Say Uni!' 

“But before he could lite on her with his knife, I 
hopped out of my close-pen into the canon, jammed 
my .45 in his ear, an’ observes : 

“ ‘Mr. Hairyman, you’re a liar, an’ it’s Stonewall 
Kip, of Concho, tellin’ you!’ 

“ ‘Little Maudy thar ain’t full, an’ she don’t have 
to say airy a thing she don’t want to; an’ if you don’t 
pull your freight sudden for th’ brush, I’ll shore shoot 
six different kinds of meanness outen your low-down 
murderin’ carcass!’ 

“Th’ way his whiskers skipped over boulders makin’ 
his getaway was some active, while th’ pore little gal 
she jest drops off in a dead faint an’ lays thar till some 
folks comes down the gulch an’ carries her off. 

“Then I takes th’ kink outen th’ hammer of my gun, 
sticks her in my waist-band, an’ climbs back an’ gits 
my hat — havin’ had more’n enough of such blasted 
Op’ra The-a-ters. 


204 



“BUT BEFORE HE COULD LITE ON HER WITH HIS KNIFE, I HOPPED OUT OF MY 

CLOSE-PEN INTO THE CANON” 


* 






- 



















' 





















































































CONCHO CURLY AT THE OP’RA 


“An’ while I was driftin’ through the chute toward 
the main gate of th’ big pen, to git out, there was th’ 
blamedest cheerin’, yellin’, an’ hand-clappin’ you ever 
heard away from a stump-speakin’, but whatever she 
was all about Stonewall didn’t stop to ax.” 



XL— The Lie* 

By Hermann Hagedorn 

D ID you prepare this lesson, Burton ?” 

Burton, big, athletic, handsome as a movie 
hero — hesitated a second before he answered. 
He was busy picking up a pad which lay under his 
seat. 

He deposited the pad on the wide armrest and looked 
up inquiringly as though he had not fully compre- 
hended the question. Mr. Beaver, the algebra teacher, 
was smiling his friendly and slightly irritating smile. 

“I asked you, Burton,” he repeated gently, “whether 
you had prepared. Did you?” 

“Yes, sir,” answered Burton. 

“Thank you,” said Mr. Beaver. He opened a cer- 
tain terrifying little black book and made a dot in the 
lower left-hand corner of a certain square opposite the 
name of Burton. “Perhaps,” he added, “you had 

* Reprinted from “The Boy Scouts’ Year Book” Copyright, 
1918, by D. Appleton and Company. 

206 


THE LIE 


better go over it again,” and smiled the same smile, 
which would have been sardonic but for the mildness 
of his tone. 

Burton sank glumly back in his seat. 

Mr. Beaver regarded his little book studiously for 
a moment. Then he looked up. The smile was gone. 
The alert face, adequately adorned by a reddish beard 
fading into gray, was now solicitous. 

“Harrington,” he said. 

A Fourth Former in the middle row stood up. He 
was slight and rather pallid, and it was evident that 
he should begin shaving without further delay, for 
there was already a shadow of fuzz on his cheeks 
and chin that made him look unwashed and rather 
weak. His mother, who was vain, had insisted that 
he postpone shaving. She could not bear to think 
that she was the mother of a son who was almost a 
man, she always said. It made her feel so old. 

Harrington, sallow and unshorn, was not an inspir- 
ing sight. Mr. Beaver evidently thought so. His eyes 
were unquestionably serious. 

“Harrington,” he said, “it seems that you are an- 
other of our weak brethren this morning. Did you 
prepare your lesson?” 

Again, the second's hesitation. Harrington turned 
a shade paler, if possible. Then, with an effort, he 
spoke. 

“No, sir.” 

“I was afraid not,” said Mr. Beaver making another 
207 


THE BOY SCOUTS BOOK OF STORIES 


cryptic dot. Then he smiled. Harrington writhed 
and the rest of the class, except Burton, laughed. 
“Why not?” 

“I— I was ill.” 

Mr. Beaver was at once sympathetic, though seri- 
ous. “Did you report to Dr. Stevens?” 

“No, sir.” 

Why not?” 

“I knew he had already gone.” 

“You were ill after ten o'clock?” 

“Yes, sir.” 

Again Mr. Beaver smiled. “But surely you might 
have done your algebra before ten o’clock?” 

“I was — busy, sir.” 

“With other lessons?” 

Harrington hesitated. 

“With other lessons?” Mr. Beaver repeated. 

“No, sir.” 

“Well?” 

“I had a spread.” 

There was a roar from the other boys. 

“Quiet!” said Mr. Beaver. “Now, Harrington, as 
I understand the situation,” he continued mildly, “you 
failed to prepare your lesson because you were ill in 
consequence of a spread which it was against the rules 
to indulge in. Is that it?” 

“Y— yes, sir.” 

“Professor is very much opposed to — illicit spreads, 
as you know” — (“Professor” was the Headmaster) 
208 


THE LIE 


— ‘‘I am afraid this will mean about thirty demerits, 
therefore. You have other demerits ?” 

“Yes, sir.” 

“How many?” 

“Twenty.” 

Mr. Beaver closed his little book and stood a mo- 
ment by his desk looking quietly over at Harrington. 
His face was serious, but even his victim could not 
help feeling that there was a certain affectionate sym- 
pathy behind the quiet sternness. 

“Look out, Harrington,” he said at last with a re- 
turn of that curious smile of his. “Broad is the way 
that leadeth to destruction and the milestones are al- 
ways spreads — of one sort or another. You may sit 
down.” 

The boy sat down and the work of the class pro- 
ceeded. Two boys, for widely divergent reasons, 
heard the other boys go through their paces as though 
it were all a bad dream of wriggling x’s and y * s like 
snakes darting in and out of the placid waters of Mr. 
Beaver’s endless questioning. 

The bell clanged at last, indicating the end of the 
period. Three or four boys went forward to confer 
with Mr. Beaver about certain vexing algebraic prob- 
lems. Needless to say, neither Burton nor Harrington 
was among these. They drifted out into the cloister 
with the rest of the class, having certain problems of 
their own, not algebraic. One or two boys addressed 
Burton and were rebuffed with a curt word, which was 
209 


THE BOY SCOUTS BOOK OF STORIES 


unusual, as Burton was almost painstakingly friendly 
to everybody. 

“Say !” whispered one to the other, “Burton’s got a 
grouch on. He’s sour at Beaver, I guess.” 

“Beaver is awfully fresh sometimes. After all, 
Bill Burton’s captain of the football team.” 

“He’s a good deal more important to the school 
than Beaver’ll ever be.” 

“That’s no joke either.” 

The two boys parted. Neither ventured to intrude 
again upon Burton’s sacred resentment. For Burton 
was a very great man at The Towers. 

No one spoke to Harrington. No one cared 
whether he had a grouch or not. For Harrington was 
a new boy who had as yet failed to “fit in.” He was 
emphatically not an athlete. But he was not a “sissy” 
either. He was quite as emphatically not a student 
nor a literary light ; but he was as quick as a jack rab- 
bit in his physics “lab” work and not to be scorned as 
a guesser in reading Caesar at sight. He was not 
openly religious — which kept him out of the Y. M. 
C. A. But, on the other hand, in a quiet way, he 
deeply loved the out of doors, and that love, like all 
love, is a kind of worship of God. Harrington was 
unquestionably “hard to place.” The boys as well as 
the masters, when they spoke about him at all, agreed 
on that. The only pigeon-hole into which he seemed 
to fit was the pigeon-hole of the “Queer Dicks.” His 


210 


THE LIE 


first name happened to be Richard, which helped to 
settle the classification. 

Burton passed through the West Wing, being a 
Sixth Former, with a room on the top floor of the 
New Building, and, chewing his lips, crossed the wide 
level lawn — with its strip of bright green grass that 
showed where the hot water pipes ran — and disap- 
peared through a door in the western end. 

Harrington did not go to his room. Young men 
who get demerits were not privileged at The Towers 
to study in their own rooms. They spent periods not 
occupied with recitations in the school room, a long 
room containing some two hundred desks, with a 
raised platform and an organ at the southern end; 
the place had once been used as the school chapel and 
was still used for the morning song-service which en- 
livened the daily grind. Plaster busts of the great 
of all ages, from Homer to Longfellow, peered from 
their plaster brackets. There was a verse also on the 
southern walls: 

So nigh is grandeur to our dust, 

So near is God to man : 

When Duty whispers low, Thou must, 

The Youth replies, I can. 

Dick Harrington didn't like that verse. In fact, 
he thought it was rot. He disliked even more the 
black tablets on the opposite wall containing in gilt 
letters at least four inches high the names of the 
exemplary youths who in their time had been Heads 
21 1 


THE BOY SCOUTS BOOK OF STORIES 


of School. And in this place, surrounded by Models 
of Good Conduct, he was supposed to study four, five 
and sometimes six hours a day! Two hundred bent 
forms and Mr. Watrous, the day’s jail-keeper, wan- 
dering aiml^sly about, pretending not to be the spy 
that he was! Altogether, the schoolroom was a 
horror. 

Harrington bent over his desk like the rest and 
pretended to study French. But he did not study. He 
did a little mathematical problem instead. Twenty 
demerits and thirty demerits made fifty demerits. And 
fifty demerits meant probation, and probation meant 
that he could not go to Chancellor’s Hill to see the 
big game to-morrow afternoon. That was a tragedy. 
All the autumn the game with Chancellor’s Hill had 
been held before him by the old boys as the last word 
in thrills; for a week there had been talk of nothing 
else. You would have thought that the final whistle 
of that game was going to bring the heavens crashing 
down on creation. No one seemed to be planning 
anything beyond that Saturday afternoon. The gen- 
eral notion seemed to be that if The Towers won, 
the rapture of that victory would make any trial 
thereafter bearable; and if The Towers lost — well, 
torture and death would, in comparison, be sweet. 

And now, he, Dick Harrington, who loved thrills 
as much as any man, was not to see the game. For 
days his nerves had been at a sharp tension of anticipa- 
tion. Now suddenly they relaxed, leaving him weak 


212 


THE LIE 


and despairing. Life had lost its meaning. Of 
course, the game would be held anyway, and there 
would be the excitement of getting the telegraphic 
reports at the end of the periods; but the real thrills 
would all be at Chancellor’s Hill; and he would be at 
The Towers. 

He luxuriated in misery; he reveled in despair. 
Just because of a bit of a spread with Sammy Oakes 
and Chet Burrowes, just because of one unprepared 
lesson! Of course there had been other spreads be- 
fore this fatal one; and of course there had been one 
or two unprepared lessons also — therefore the original 
twenty demerits. But why ruin a boy’s happiness 
forever because of a missed recitation? 

Dick Harrington was exceedingly sorry for him- 
self. 

His indignation was violent while it lasted but it 
did not last long, for there was sharp regret of an- 
other sort hovering all the while at the rim of his 
consciousness. It was a regret not so pleasant to 
indulge as the other. He had been made the butt — 
the laughing stock — of the algebra class. He tingled 
and flushed at the memory of it. Bill Burton had 
also flunked his lesson; but Burton had been able to 
say that he had at least prepared it, and the whole pro- 
ceeding had been dignified and everybody loved and 
admired Burton all the more because with all his 
greatness he was just like other boys about lessons. 
213 


THE BOY SCOUTS BOOK OF STORIES 


But he, Dick Harrington, had been disgraced. And in 
the presence of William Burton! 

That, after all, was the hardest thing to swallow. 
That was worse than missing the game with Chan- 
cellor’s Hill. For Dick Harrington worshiped Bill 
Burton, because he was physically and socially every- 
thing that Dick never could hope to be. He was the 
school’s crack athlete, the president of the Sixth Form, 
the chairman of the Student Council, the president of 
the Y. M. C. A. He was the One Great Hero of the 
boys, and the Headmaster himself consulted him 
whenever he had a knotty problem of boy-nature to 
solve. Before Dick had been at school a week, he 
knew that he would rather find favor with “Colonel” 
Burton than see his name in gold letters in the school- 
room, or, for that matter, on the Common Room 
tablets, where the athletic records are kept. “The 
Colonel” was rather used to adoration, and, being 
human, liked it But he was no more attentive to 
this particular adorer than to any one else, which 
intensified Dick Harrington’s “case.” 

Dick did not study much French on that morning 
in late October. For suddenly a new, insidious ques- 
tion jumped into the forefront of his thoughts : Why 
had he blurted out everything to Mr. Beaver? Why 
hadn't he just lied ? 

That question thrust at the very roots of life, and 
Dick Harrington knew it. He went cold and hot by 
214 


THE LIE 


turns. Somehow it had never occurred to him to 
lie. He did not know why. It was possibly because 
his father was such a shining figure of truthfulness 
personified. He remembered something he had over- 
heard his mother say to his father a long time ago — 
“I never realized until I married you that it is really 
awful to lie.” 

Was it really so awful? A lie in time certainly 
simplified life a lot. And as long as it did not hurt 
anybody else — what was really the difference? A 
goody-goody Sunday-school teacher had told him, 
when he was five, that the lightning would smite him 
if he told a lie. -.Whereupon he had told a lie deliber- 
ately during the course of the next thunderstorm to 
test Mr. Goody-Goody’s veracity, and proved him a 
liar, first thing. 

Staring at French irregular verbs, Dick clenched his 
hands, trying to figure it all out. Suddenly, forget- 
ting where he was, he pounded the desk-top with his 
left fist. Then he gave a yowl which rang through the 
schoolroom, providing exhilarating diversion to two 
hundred lifted heads. For in his cogitations his right 
hand had clutched the edge of the desk on which the 
top closed. 

He explained the accident to Mr. Watrous, who 
proved skeptical, though the Spy was forced to admit 
that the hand looked red enough to hurt. 

The schoolroom settled again into quiet. The ex- 
citement, from start to finish, had covered about ninety 

215 


THE BOY SCOUTS BOOK OF STORIES 


seconds. No one suspected that the unshaven, dis- 
heveled boy was, in that studious, quiet place, having 
his first great wrestle with life. 

The football team, accompanied by the coaches, the 
Headmaster Brewster and his wife, a half-dozen mas- 
ters, and the Fourth, Fifth and Sixth Forms almost 
in a body, in auto-hacks and horse-hacks, on foot and 
by trolley, departed for the railroad station and 
Chancellor’s Hill next morning at eight, to the sound 
of cheers. 

Dick Harrington stood in the great Archway with 
the Lower School and a handful of other boys, like 
himself on probation (or just “broke”), cheering the 
school, the team, “The Colonel,” the manager, the 
school, the team, and again and again “The Colonel,” 
until the last boy was out of sight. The team was 
hopeful of victory; the school was confident of it. 
But “The Colonel’s” face was curiously grave. He 
smiled and joked; now and then he tossed some gay 
piece of derision into the crowd of woe-begone stay- 
at-homes. But the gravity remained in the eyes all 
the while. Harrington saw it, and it occurred to him 
that it was natural that the Captain of The Towers 
football team should feel the weight of a great re- 
sponsibility; he was quite sure that “Colonel” Burton 
had never seemed to him so heroic as to-day. There 
was no question about it. There was an unusual 
nobility in Bill Burton’s eyes and in the carriage of 
216 


THE LIE 


his head. But there was also a curious impression of 
suffering there and about the lips. Dick saw Mrs. 
Brewster look at Burton with a friendly, somewhat 
quizzical, smile. Then in two minutes the fortunate 
ones were gone and The Towers became a St. Helena, 
where a chill wind played shrilly all day long around 
corners of buildings and in and out the cloisters. 

Lessons that morning were a gloom and dinner in 
the huge, half empty dining-room offered an opportu- 
nity to satisfy the boy’s hunger and — that was all. As 
a social function it was a flat failure. Everybody 
talked of the game, as wrecked sailors drifting in an 
open boat talked of shore. Life was unreal somehow, 
everything so empty, so quiet. If, as some one had 
once remarked, The Towers was a very furnace of 
flaming life and energy — some one had certainly 
dumped the grate. 

The game was to be called at Chancellor’s Hill at 
one-thirty; and at one-thirty the first stragglers ap- 
peared in the chilly Archway to take their position 
at the bulletin board, where the score was to be posted 
as it came along the wire. 

Dick Harrington, in sweater and cap, arrived at 
one- forty-five. The first score had just been posted : 


Chancellor’s Hill 5 

The Towers o 


The Headmaster’s secretary, a studious but other- 
wise attractive young man, who posted the notice, 
217 


THE BOY SCOUTS BOOK OF STORIES 

volunteered the information that the Chancellor's Hill 
left end had turned the trick with a fifty-five yard run 
when The Towers eleven had tied itself into a knot 
through a jumbled signal. 

“That’s an awful beginning!” said Runt Woods, 
who was standing next to Dick Harrington. He was 
a little, flat-faced, brownie sort of boy, whom every- 
body loved. “Must have been in the first five minutes 
of play.” 

“They won’t get any more,” Dick answered con- 
fidently. “It’s too bad they scored, but they won’t 
get any more.” 

His optimism was unwarranted. There was a long 
wait without news. Then Mr. Tuttle, the secretary, 
reappeared from the Main Building, wearing a rueful 
smile. He picked up the eraser under the bulletin 
board, but he did not disturb the zero which stood 
to the credit (or debit) of The Towers. He rubbed 
out the 5 that followed Chancellor’s Hill and set down 
ii. 

“Something’s happened!” cried Dick. 

“Two touchdowns and a goal have happened,” said 
Runt Woods gloomily. 

“I don’t mean that. I mean that something’s hap- 
pened to the team! Lost their heads, or something.” 

He wondered whether “The Colonel” had been taken 
ill. “The Colonel” was so completely the heart and 
soul of the team. If for some reason he were out of 
it 


218 


THE LIE 


They must be playing the second period by now. 
There was another long wait. Then at last Mr. 
Tuttle, looking grave, reappeared. 

At the edge of the Archway, he stopped. “Don’t 
mob me, now,” he said, trying to grin. 

‘‘What’s the score? Score!” cried a hundred 
voices. 

“End of the second period,” he said, striding toward 
the board. “Score n to o.” 

Groans, loud and prolonged. 

The wind whistled through the Archway. The boys 
stuck their hands in their pockets and danced, shiver- 
ing, but not one deserted the bulletin board. They 
stared at the dismal figures and a dozen versions of 
How It Must Have Happened were launched by 
imaginative spectators, attacked ruthlessly and tor- 
pedoed as improbable. The trouble with the whole 
matter of explaining Chancellor’s HilL’s two touch- 
downs was that the very fact of the touchdowns would, 
an hour ago, have seemed the last word in improb- 
abilities. They talked and shivered and bantered and 
sang and cheered (just to keep warm) for a solid 
hour. Mr. Tuttle reappeared at last. 

The boys surged out of the Archway into the Quad- 
rangle to meet him. 

“Score! What’s the score?” 

“Get back, you wild Indians!” cried the studious 
secretary to some importunate First Formers who 
219 


THE BOY SCOUTS BOOK OF STORIES 


were tugging at his arms. “There is no news, and I 
can’t get Chancellor’s Hill on the telephone.” 

There were murmurs of bewilderment. The Senior 
Master, tall, genial, and conspicuous for his good 
sense, came out of the Main Building, and suggested a 
run for health’s sake. He tagged Runt Woods lightly 
and was off. With a shout the crowd followed him 
at a jog-trot past the Music House, past the Cottage 
out on to the cinder track. They jogged a quarter- 
mile. 

As they reached the Cottage on the return trip, they 
saw Mr. Tuttle dancing toward them, wildly waving 
his arms. 

The Senior Master halted his band. 

“Fifteen to eleven!” shouted Mr. Tuttle ecstatically. 
“We win!” 

The roar that followed was memorable. Eppie, 
the confectionery man, picking his teeth in his empty 
shop at the foot of the hill, threw away his toothpick 
and went to the kitchen to tell his wife that The 
Towers had won, and business for the rest of the 
afternoon would be brisk. 

Two minutes later the jubilant invasion began. 
Dick Harrington was not one of the crowd that 
rushed, cheering down the hill. He was on probation, 
and Eppie’s was out of bounds. 

He stood in the Archway, lonely and miserable. 

Why hadn't he lied? 


220 


THE LIE 


The team was due back at Hainesburg, the rail- 
road station for The Towers, at eight-thirty. One 
or two Sixth Formers, flushed and almost incoherent 
with excitement, had asked the Senior Master for 
permission to organize a torchlight parade. 

“Sure enough! Good idea!” exclaimed the Senior 
Master. “Go to it ! Don’t burn yourselves up, don’t 
get lost, don’t get in the way of the train and don’t 
all have apoplectic fits as my friend Andrew here is 
promising to do shortly if some one doesn’t put an ice 
compress on his enthusiasm. But go on. Give ’em 
a good time.” 

“Thank you ever so much, sir!” cried Andrew, 
“and I’ll promise to cool off.” 

“Go ’way!’ cried the Senior Master cheerfully. 
“You don’t know how. You’re a perpetual human 
Roman candle.” 

“I’ll hold him down, sir,” said the other boy. 

“Pshaw!” cried the Senior Master. “You’re a 
Whiz-bang yourself — go ’long ! Shoo !” 

The boys went. 

At eight, Dick Harrington made his way to the 
Study to ask the Senior Master whether boys “on 
probe” could join the triumphal procession. The 
Senior Master was kindly, but firm. 

“Sorry, old man,” he said. “Probe rules hold.” 

That was all. But Dick Harrington without a 
word went to his room on the third floor of the East 
Wing, stumbling on the stairs, because of the tears. 

221 


THE BOY SCOUTS BOOK OF STORIES 


Why , he asked himself bitterly again and again — 
why hadn't he lied ? 

He crept out of his room an hour later, hearing the 
cheers of the returning revelers. His hallway was 
utterly deserted, the school was deserted. If he needed 
any further evidence that virtue did not pay, here it 
was. “Be good and you'll he lonesome." There was 
one aphorism proved, at least. 

Suddenly, standing in the Quadrangle, he heard 
singing. Then through the bare branches he saw the 
glow of many torches. It was all magical and mys- 
terious, for the wild cheering which had brought him 
down from his room had given way to a solemn exalta- 
tion of triumph. If he had had a hat on his head, he 
would have pulled it off, hearing the school song sung 
that way. He felt a tug at his heart and again the 
dimness covered his eyes because he should be fated to 
have no active part in that thrilling chorus of victory. 

He stood quite still, swallowing hard. At the end 
of the first stanza, there was a “regular yell” for The 
Towers, as the procession turned sharply, with torches 
flaring, up the steep drive. He could see now that 
they were dragging a hay-wagon with ropes. The 
team was on the hay-wagon. The second stanza of 
the school song floated up to him, it seemed a chant 
drifting over from fairyland. 

The procession came nearer now. The hill and the 
hay-wagon together proved too much for the singers 
222 


THE LIE 


and the song died off in breathless laughter and an- 
other cheer. Then somebody started to call off the 
score : “One — two — three — four — ” to a climactic 
burst — “Fifteen!’ The procession disappeared be- 
hind the Main Building only to reappear a minute or 
two later around the corner of the Office, on the other 
side of the Archway. Dick Harrington wished that 
he had enough manly pride to scorn it all and go back 
to his room. But he didn’t, so he rushed to where the 
crowd was gathered and listened in rapture to the 
cheers and the speeches and the songs and all the won- 
derful stories of a wonderful game. ' 

“Colonel” Burton was there, smiling embarrassed 
appreciation. He had won the game for The Towers, 
when it seemed hopelessly lost. Every one agreed to 
that. He made a speech, thanking everybody for 
everything. 

Why, oh, why, Dick cried to himself, as he climbed 
three flights after “creams” a half-hour later — Why 
hadn't he had the sense to lief 

Dick Harrington crept into bed, and his roommate 
crept into bed. The roommate slept and Dick Har- 
rington tried to sleep, but sleep eluded him — it seemed 
for hours. Perhaps it was only for fifteen or twenty 
minutes. Then he too slept, dreaming of torchlit 
chariots. 

He woke and gave a low cry. Some one was sitting 
on his bed. He started to jump up, scared through; 

223 


THE BOY SCOUTS BOOK OF STORIES 


but a strong hand touched his shoulder and a friendly 
voice whispered — “It’s all right, Harrie; don’t be 
scared.” 

Dick was still half asleep and dazed. “Who are 
you?” he cried in an unnatural voice. 

“It’s Bill Burton.” 

“Who ?” he asked, amazed. 

“Bill Burton.” 

“You’re somebody trying to fool me/’ Dick whis- 
pered after a pause. 

“No, I’m not, Harrie,” said the other’s deep, rich 
voice. “I wanted to talk to you. I couldn’t wait 
until to-morrow, so I got permission from Prof, and 
here I am.” 

“What makes you want to see me?” asked Dick 
softly. “I guess I don’t understand at all. I didn’t 
think you knew me.” 

“You remember yesterday in the Algebra class?” 

“You bet I remember,” whispered Dick emphat- 
ically. 

There was a moment’s utter quiet. From away 
over in the direction of Chicken Hill came the sound 
of a rumpus in the Black Belt of Hainesburg. Then 
again quiet. 

Burton spoke at last, slowly and rather more softly 
than before. “Beaver asked you and me the same 
question, you remember?” 

“Yes,” murmured Dick, breathlessly. 

“You told him the truth.” 

22 4 



HE WOKE AND GAVE A LOW CRY 


SOME ONE WAS SITTING ON HIS BED 




THE LIE 


“I just blurted out a lot of ” 

“Well, I lied .” 

Somehow the shock of those words was to Dick 
Harrington like the impact of a terrible fist. He liter- 
ally saw stars. The idea that “The Colonel” should 
tell a lie was inconceivable. Sneaks and cowards lied. 
His reeling standards straightened suddenly. His bit- 
ter regret that he hadn’t had the sense to lie evaporated 
in the glow of an overwhelming gratitude. He could 
not speak. 

“Harrie,” Burton went on with a quiet depth of 
feeling which was not lost on Dick (for Dick had 
deep capabilities of sympathy himself if any one 
bothered to find it out). “You told the truth and I 
know what it cost you. I lied. And it took all the 
stuffin’s out of me, Harrie. As soon as the lie was 
out, I felt I’d have given my head to have it back. 
You see, Harrie, quite apart from the right or wrong 
of it, it wouldn’t have mattered if I had told the 
truth.” 

“It wouldn’t?” 

“No, I’ve had a fairly good record in class lately. 
But ” 

“Why did you do it?” 

“That’s just it, old man. It was habit, I guess. It 
was just the line of least resistance. It was the 
quickest way out of a box — I didn’t think, and bang! 
— first thing I knew I’d gone and done it! I’m a 
225 


THE BOY SCOUTS BOOK OF STORIES 


good deal older than you, Harrie, I’m twenty-one. I 
was a pretty bad kid until Prof, and Mrs. Brewster 
got hold of me. I’ve managed to get most of the 
worst devils under. And I thought I had the lie- 
devil under. I haven’t told a lie for two years. But 
I didn’t have him under, Harrie. When I least ex- 
pected him, there he was. I guess I haven’t been as 
unhappy for a good many years as I was yesterday 
and to-day.” 

Dick Harrington floundered helplessly for words 
— “I never thought ” 

“I was getting pretty cocky about my own goodness, 
I guess,” Burton went on quietly. “That’s why I got 
it in the neck this way. But it took the sand right 
out of me. It seemed that all the years of tussle were 
in vain and I wasn’t worth a little yaller dog’s respect, 
and here the school was looking to me to do big 
things. It took it right out of me, Harrie. Do you 
know what was the trouble with the first two periods 
of the game to-day?” 

“The team lost their heads, and then you bucked 
’em up and won the game. The fellows told me.” 

“That sounds good, old man. But the trouble was 
that I couldn’t get my mind down on the game. I was 
all the time thinking of that algebra class and that 
lie. I thought of it out on the field and mixed up the 
plays. That was the reason for those two first 
periods.” 


226 


THE LIE 


Dick Harrington sat bolt upright. “Really? 
Really ?” he exclaimed. 

“Instead of trying to win the game, I was all the 
time trying to puzzle out what I could do to wipe out 
that Lie. It wasn’t square to the team, it wasn’t 
square to the school, but there it was. There was 
that Lie. I tried to laugh at myself, but that didn’t 
do any good. There was that Lie. I tried to curse 
myself out, but that didn’t do any good. There was 
that Lie, sitting in my heart.” 

Dick stared at him through the darkness with 
burning eyes. “Then what happened?” he cried in a 
low voice. 

“I dunno exactly, Harrie,” Burton answered, speak- 
ing very slowly. “Suddenly I just found that I was 
thinking of you.” 

“Of me?” There was awe in the exclamation. 

“And then it was all clear. I had to square myself 
with you. Suddenly I knew that that was what would 
wipe out that Lie and give me a fresh start. It was 
like a sort of revelation. You see, Harrie, I knew 
that you thought I was pretty fine, and you just had 
to be set straight.” 

“I — I haven’t changed my mind at all about you,” 
said Dick Harrington timidly. “And you won the 
game after all.” 

Bill Burton leaned over the younger boy. His hand 
groped for Dick’s shoulder and clutched it. 

“I didn’t win the game,” he whispered tensely. 

227 


THE BOY SCOUTS BOOK OF STORIES 

“The game wasn’t really played at Chancellor’s Hill 
at all. It was played in the algebra class. It was lost 
when I lied, and it was won a minute later when you 
told the truth. And I guess I’m pretty glad you told 
the truth.” 

“So am I,” murmured Dick very softly. 

They both breathed deeply. It had been a notable 
victory. 

Next morning, between breakfast and Sunday serv- 
ice, Dick Harrington surreptitiously borrowed his 
roommate’s safety razor, and shaved with shining 
eyes. 



XIL — Story of the Bandbox 

By Robert Louis Stevenson 

U P to the age of sixteen, at a private school and 
afterward at one of those great institutions 
for which England is justly famous, Mr. 
Harry Hartley had received the ordinary education of 
a gentleman. At that period he manifested a remark- 
able distaste for study; and his only surviving parent 
being both weak and ignorant, he was permitted 
thenceforward to spend his time in the attainment of 
petty and purely elegant accomplishments. Two years 
later, he was left an orphan and almost a beggar. For 
all active and industrious pursuits, Harry was unfitted 
alike by nature and training. He could sing romantic 
ditties, and accompany himself with discretion on the 
piano; he was a graceful although a timid cavalier; he 
229 


THE BOY SCOUTS BOOK OF STORIES 

had a pronounced taste for chess ; and nature had sent 
him into the world with one of the most engaging ex- 
teriors than can well be fancied. 

A fortunate chance and some influence obtained for 
Harry, at the time of his bereavement, the position 
of private secretary to Major-General Sir Thomas 
Vandeleur, C. B. Sir Thomas was a man of sixty, 
loud-spoken, boisterous, and domineering. For some 
reason, some service, the nature of which had been 
often whispered and repeatedly denied, the Rajah of 
Kashgar had presented this officer with the sixth largest 
known diamond of the world. The gift transformed 
General Vandeleur from a poor into a wealthy man, 
from an obscure and unpopular soldier into one of 
the lions of London society; the possessor of the 
Rajah’s Diamond was welcome in the most exclusive 
circles ; and he had found a lady, young, beautiful, and 
well-born, who was willing to call the diamond hers 
even at the price of marriage with Sir Thomas Van- 
deleur. It was commonly said at the time that, as 
like draws to like, one jewel had attracted another; 
certainly Lady Vandeleur was not only a gem of the 
finest water in her own person, but she showed herself 
to the world in a very costly setting; and she was 
considered by many respectable authorities as one 
among the three or four best-dressed women in Eng- 
land. 

Harry’s duty as secretary was not particularly 
onerous ; but he had a dislike for all prolonged work ; 
230 


STORY OF THE BANDBOX 

it gave him pain to ink his fingers ; and the charms of 
Lady Vandeleur and her toilets drew him often from 
the library to the boudoir. He had the prettiest ways 
among women, could talk fashions with enjoyment, 
and was never more happy than when criticizing a 
shade of ribbon, or running on an errand to the mil- 
liner’s. In short, Sir Thomas’ correspondence fell 
into pitiful arrears, and my lady had another lady’s 
maid. 

At last the general, who was one of the least patient 
of military commanders, arose from his place in a 
violent excess of passion, and indicated to his secre- 
tary that he had no further use for his services, with 
one of those explanatory gestures which are most 
rarely employed between gentlemen. The door being 
unfortunately open, Mr. Hartley fell down-stairs head 
foremost. 

He arose somewhat hurt and very deeply aggrieved. 
The life in the general’s house precisely suited him ; he 
moved, on a more or less doubtful footing, in very gen- 
teel company, he did little, he ate of the best, and he 
had a lukewarm satisfaction in the presence of Lady 
Vandeleur. 

Immediately after he had been outraged by the mili- 
tary foot, he hurried to the boudoir and recounted his 
sorrows. 

“You know very well, my dear Harry,” replied 
Lady Vandeleur, for she called him by name like a 
child or a domestic servant, “that you never by any 
231 


THE BOY SCOUTS BOOK OF STORIES 


chance do what the general tells you. I shall be sorry 
to lose you, but since you cannot stay longer in a house 
where you have been insulted, I shall wish you good- 
bye, and I promise you to make the general smart for 
his behavior. ,, 

“My lady,” said he, “what is an insult? I should 
think little indeed of any one who could not forgive 
them by the score. But to leave one’s friends; to 
tear up the bonds of affection ” 

He was unable to continue, for his emotion choked 
him, and he began to weep. 

Lady Vandeleur looked at him with a curious ex- 
pression. 

“This little fool,” she thought, “why should he not 
become my servant instead of the general’s? He is 
good-natured, obliging, and understands dress ; and be- 
sides, it will keep him out of mischief.” 

That night she talked over the general, who was al- 
ready somewhat ashamed of his vivacity; and Harry 
was transferred to the feminine department, where his 
life was little short of heavenly. He was always 
dressed with uncommon nicety, wore delicate flowers 
in his button-hole, and could entertain a visitor with 
tact and pleasantry. 

One fine morning he came into the drawing-room 
and began to arrange some music on the top of the 
piano. Lady Vandeleur, at the other end of the apart- 
ment, was speaking somewhat eagerly with her 
brother, Charlie Pendragon, an elderly young man, 
232 


STORY OF THE BANDBOX 

much broken with dissipation and very lame of one 
foot. The private secretary, to whose entrance they 
paid no regard, could not avoid overhearing a part of 
their conversation. 

“To-day or never,” said the lady. “Once and for 
all, it shall be done to-day.” 

“To-day, it must be,” replied the brother, with a 
sigh. “But it is a false step, a ruinous step, Clara; 
and we shall live to repent it dismally.” 

Lady Vandeleur looked her brother steadily and 
somewhat strangely in the face. 

“You forget,” she said; “the man must die at 
last.” 

“Upon my word, Clara,” said Pendragon, “I be- 
lieve you are the most heartless rascal in England.” 

“You men,” she returned, “are so coarsely built, 
that you can never appreciate a shade of meaning. 
You are yourselves rapacious, violent, immodest, care- 
less of distinction; and yet the least thought for the 
future shocks you in a woman. I have no patience 
with such stuff. You would despise in a common 
banker the imbecility that you expect to find in us.” 

“You are very likely right,” replied her brother; 
“you were always cleverer than I. And, anyway, you 
know my motto: the family before all.” 

“Yes, Charlie,” she returned, taking his hand in 
hers. “I know your motto better than you know it 
yourself. And ‘Clara before the 'family P Is not 
5233 


THE BOY SCOUTS BOOK OF STORIES 


that the second part of it? Indeed, you are the best 
of brothers, and I love you dearly. ,, 

Mr. Pendragon got up, looking a little confused by 
these family endearments. 

“I had better not be seen/’ said he. “I understand 
my part to a miracle, and F1J keep an eye on the Tame 
Cat” 

“Do,” she replied. “He is an abject creature, and 
might ruin all.” 

She kissed the tips of her fingers to him daintily; 
and the brother withdrew by the boudoir and the 
back-stair. 

“Harry,” said Lady Vandeleur, turning toward the 
secretary as soon as they were alone. “I have a com- 
mission for you this morning. But you shall take a 
cab; I cannot have my secretary freckled.” 

She spoke the last words with emphasis and a look 
of half -motherly pride that caused great contentment 
to poor Harry; and he professed himself charmed to 
find an opportunity of serving her. 

“It is another of our great secrets,” she went on 
archly, “and no one must know of it but my secre- 
tary and me. Sir Thomas would make the saddest 
disturbance; and if you only knew how weary I am 
with these scenes! Oh, Harry, Harry, can you ex- 
plain to me what makes you men so violent and un- 
just? But, indeed, I know you cannot; you are the 
only man in the world who knows nothing of these 
shameful passions; you are so good, Harry, and so 
234 


STORY OF THE BANDBOX 


kind; you, at least, can be a woman’s friend; and do 
you know? I think you make the others more ugly 
by comparison.” 

“It is you,” said Harry, gallantly, “who are so kind 
to me. You treat me like ” 

“Like a mother,” interposed Lady Vandeleur. “I 
try to be a mother to you. Or, at least,” she corrected 
herself with a smile, “almost a mother. I am afraid 
I am too young to be your mother really. Let us say 
a friend — a dear friend.” 

“But all this is beside our purpose,” she resumed. 
“You will find a bandbox in the left-hand side of the 
oak wardrobe; it is underneath the pink slip that I 
wore on Wednesday with my Mechlin. You will take 
it immediately to this address,” and she gave him a 
.slip of paper, “but do not, on any account, let it out 
of your hands until you have received a receipt writ- 
ten by myself. Do you understand? Answer, if you 
please — answer! This is extremely important, and 
I must ask you to pay some attention.” 

Harry pacified her by repeating her instructions per- 
fectly; and she was just going to tell him more when 
General Vandeleur flung into the apartment, scarlet 
with anger, and holding a long and elaborate milli- 
ner’s bill in his hand. 

“Will you look at this, madam?” cried he. “Will 
you have the goodness to look at this document? I 
know well enough you married me for my money, and 
I hope I can make as great allowance as any other 
235 


THE BOY SCOUTS BOOK OF STORIES 

man in the service; but, as sure as God made me, I 
mean to put a period to this disreputable prodigality.” 

“Mr. Hartley,” said Lady Vandeleur, “I think you 
understand what you have to do. May I ask you to 
see to it at once?” 

“Stop,” said the general, addressing Harry, “one 
word before you go.” And then, turning again to 
Lady Vandeleur, “What is this precious fellow's er- 
rand?” he demanded. “I trust him no further than 
I do yourself, let me tell you. If he had as much as 
the rudiments of honesty, he would scorn to stay in 
this house; and what he does for his wages is a mys- 
tery to all the world. What is his errand, madam? 
and why are you hurrying him away?” 

“I supposed you had something to say to me in 
private,” replied the lady. 

“You spoke about an errand,” insisted the general. 
“Do not attempt to deceive me in my present state of 
temper. You certainly spoke about an errand.” 

“If you insist on making your servants privy to our 
humiliating dissensions,” replied Lady Vandeleur, 
“perhaps I had better ask Mr. Hartley to sit down. 
No?” she continued; “then you may go, Mr. Hartley. 
I trust you may remember all that you have heard in 
this room ; it may be useful to you.” 

Harry at once made his escape from the drawing- 
room; and as he ran upstairs he could hear the gen- 
eral’s voice upraised in declamation, and the thin tones 
of Lady Vandeleur planting icy repartees at every 
236 


STORY OF THE BANDBOX 


opening. How cordially he admired the wife! How 
skillfully she could evade an awkward question! with 
what secure effrontery she repeated her instructions 
under the very guns of the enemy! and on the other 
hand, how he detested the husband! 

There had been nothing unfamiliar in the morn- 
ing’s events, for he was continually in the habit of 
serving Lady Vandeleur on secret missions, principally 
connected with millinery. There was a skeleton in 
the house, as he well knew. The bottomless extrava- 
gance and the unknown liabilities of the wife had long 
since swallowed her own fortune, and threatened day 
by day to ingulf that of the husband. Once or twice 
in every year exposure and ruin seemed imminent, and 
Harry kept trotting round to all sorts of furnishers’ 
shops, telling small fibs, and paying small advances 
on the gross amount, until another term was tided 
over, and the lady and her faithful secretary breathed 
again. For Harry, in a double capacity, was heart 
and soul upon that side of the war; not only did he 
adore Lady Vandeleur and fear and dislike her hus- 
band, but he naturally sympathized with the love of 
finery, and his own single extravagance was at the 
tailor’s. 

He found the bandbox where it had been described, 
arranged his toilet with care, and left the house. The 
sun shone brightly; the distance he had to travel was 
considerable, and he remembered with dismay that 
the general’s sudden interruption had prevented Lady 
237 


THE BOY SCOUTS BOOK OF STORIES 


Vandeleur from giving him money for a cab. On 
this sultry day there was every chance that his com- 
plexion would suffer severely; and to walk through so 
much of London with a bandbox on his arm was a 
humiliation almost insupportable to a youth of his 
character. He paused, and took counsel with him- 
self. The Vandeleurs lived in Eaton Place; his des- 
tination was near Notting Hill; plainly, he might 
cross the Park by keeping well in the open and avoid- 
ing populous alleys; and he thanked his stars when 
he reflected that it was still comparatively early in 
the day. 

Anxious to be rid of his incubus, he walked some- 
what faster than his ordinary, and he was already 
some way through Kensington Gardens when, in a 
solitary spot among trees, he found himself con- 
fronted by the general. 

“I beg your pardon, Sir Thomas,” observed Harry, 
politely falling on one side; for the other stood di- 
rectly in his path. 

“Where are you going, sir?” asked the general. 

“I am taking a little walk among the trees,” replied 
the lad. 

The general struck the bandbox with his cane. 

“With that thing?” he cried; “you lie, sir, and you 
know you lie!” 

“Indeed, Sir Thomas,” returned Harry, “I am not 
accustomed to be questioned in so high a key.” 

“You do not understand your position,” said the 
238 


STORY OF THE BANDBOX 

general. “You are my servant, and a servant of 
whom I have conceived the most serious suspicions. 
How do I know but that your box is full of tea- 
spoons ?” 

“It contains a silk hat belonging to a friend,” said 
Harry. 

“Very well,” replied General Vandeleur. “Then I 
want to see your friend’s silk hat. I have,” he added, 
grimly, “a singular curiosity for hats; and I believe 
you know me to be somewhat positive.” 

“I beg your pardon, Sir Thomas, I am exceed- 
ingly grieved,” Harry apologized; “but indeed this is 
a private affair.” 

The general caught him roughly by the shoulder 
with one hand, while he raised his cane in the most 
menacing manner with the other. Harry gave him- 
self up for lost; but at the same moment Heaven 
vouchsafed him an unexpected defender in the per- 
son of Charlie Pendragon, who now strode forward 
from behind the trees. 

“Come, come, general, hold your hand,” said he, 
“this is neither courteous nor manly.” 

“Aha!” cried the general, wheeling round upon his 
new antagonist, “Mr. Pendragon! And do you sup- 
pose, Mr. Pendragon, that because I have had the mis- 
fortune to marry your sister, I shall suffer myself to 
be dogged and thwarted by a discredited and bankrupt 
libertine like you? My acquaintance with Lady Van- 
239 


THE BOY SCOUTS BOOK OF STORIES 


deleur, sir, has taken away all my appetite for the 
other members of her family.” 

“And do you fancy, General Vandeleur,” retorted 
Charlie, “that because my sister has had the misfor- 
tune to marry you, she there and then forfeited her 
rights and privileges as a lady? I own, sir, that by 
that action she did as much as anybody could to dero- 
gate from her position; but to me she is still a Pen- 
dragon. I make it my business to protect her from 
ungentlemanly outrage, and if you were ten times her 
husband I would not permit her liberty to be re- 
strained, nor her private messenger to be violently ar- 
rested.” 

“How is that, Mr. Hartley?” interrogated the gen- 
eral. “Mr. Pendragon is of my opinion, it appears. 
He, too, suspects that Lady Vandeleur has something 
to do with your friend’s silk hat.” 

Charlie saw that he had committed an unpardon- 
able blunder, which he hastened to repair. 

“How, sir?” he cried; “I suspect, do you say? I 
suspect nothing. Only where I find strength abused 
and a man brutalizing his inferiors, I take the liberty 
to interfere.” 

As he said these words he made a sign to Harry, 
which the latter was too dull or too much troubled to 
understand. 

“In what way am I to construe your attitude, sir ?” 
demanded Vandeleur. 

“Why, sir, as you please,” returned Pendragon. 

240 


STORY OF THE BANDBOX 


The general once more raised his cane, and made a 
cut for Charlie’s head; but the latter, lame foot and 
all, evaded the blow with his umbrella, ran in, and 
immediately closed with his formidable adversary. 

“Run, Harry, run!” he cried; “run, you dolt!” 

Harry stood petrified for a moment, watching the 
two men sway together in this fierce embrace ; then he 
turned and took to his heels. When he cast a glance 
over his shoulder he saw the general prostrate under 
Charlie’s knee, but still making desperate efforts to 
reverse the situation; and the gardens seemed to have 
filled with people, who were running from all direc- 
tions toward the scene of the fight. This spectacle 
lent the secretary wings, and he did not relax his pace 
until he had gained the Bayswater Road, and plunged 
at random into an unfrequented by-street. 

To see two gentlemen of his acquaintance thus bru- 
tally mauling each other was deeply shocking to Harry. 
He desired to forget the sight; he desired, above all, 
to put as great a distance as possible between him- 
self and General Vandeleur; and in his eagerness for 
this he forgot everything about his destination, and 
hurried before him headlong and trembling. When he 
remembered that Lady Vandeleur was the wife of one 
and sister of the other of these gladiators, his heart 
was touched with sympathy for a woman so distress- 
ingly misplaced in life. Even his own situation in 
the general’s house looked hardly so pleasing as usual 
in the light of these violent transactions. 

241 


THE BOY SCOUTS BOOK OF STORIES 


He had walked some little distance, busied with 
these meditations, before a slight collision with another 
passenger reminded him of the bandbox on his arm. 

“Heavens !” cried he, “where was my head? and 
whither have I wandered ?” 

Thereupon he consulted the envelope which Lady 
Vandeleur had given him. The address was there, 
but without a name. Harry was simply directed to 
ask for “the gentleman who accepted a parcel from 
Lady Vandeleur, ,, and if he were not at home to await 
his return. The gentleman, added the note, should 
present a receipt in the handwriting of the lady her- 
self. All this seemed mighty mysterious, and Harry 
was above all astonished at the omission of the name 
and the formality of the receipt. He had thought 
little of this last when he heard it dropped in conversa- 
tion ; but reading it in cold blood, and taking it in con- 
nection with the other strange particulars, he became 
convinced that he was engaged in perilous affairs. 
For half a moment he had a doubt of Lady Vandeleur 
herself ; for he found these obscure proceedings some- 
what unworthy of so high a lady, and became more 
critical when her secrets were preserved against him- 
self. But her empire over his spirit was too com- 
plete, he dismissed his suspicions, and blamed him- 
self roundly for having so much as entertained them. 

In one thing, however, his duty and interest, his 
generosity and his terrors, coincided — to get rid of 
the bandbox with the greatest possible dispatch. 

242 


STORY OF THE BANDBOX 

He accosted the first policeman and courteously in- 
quired his way. It turned out that he was already 
not far from his destination, and a walk of a few min- 
utes brought him to a small house in a lane, freshly 
painted, and kept with the most scrupulous attention. 
The knocker and bell-pull were highly polished; flow- 
ering pot-herbs garnished the sills of the different 
windows; and curtains of some rich material con- 
cealed the interior from the eyes of curious passen- 
gers. The place had an air of repose and secrecy; 
and Harry was so far caught with this spirit that he 
knocked with more than usual discretion, and was more 
than usually careful to remove all impurity from his 
boots. 

A servant-maid of some personal attractions im- 
mediately opened the door, and seemed to regard the 
secretary with no unkind eyes. 

“This is the parcel from Lady Vandeleur, ,, said 
Harry. 

“I know,” replied the maid, with a nod. “But the 
gentleman is from home. Will you leave it with me?” 

“I cannot,” answered Harry. “I am directed not 
to part with it but upon a certain condition, and I must 
ask you, I am afraid, to let me wait.” 

“Well,” said she, “I suppose I may let you wait. 
I am lonely enough, I can tell you, and you do not 
look as though you would eat a girl. But be sure and 
do not ask the gentleman’ 3 name, for that I am not 
to tell you.” 


243 


THE BOY SCOUTS BOOK OF STORIES 

“Do you say so ?” cried Harry. “Why, how 
strange! But, indeed, for some time back I walk 
among surprises. One question I think I may surely 
ask without indiscretion: Is he the master of this 
house ?” 

“He is a lodger, and not eight days old at that,” 
returned the maid. “And now a question for a ques- 
tion: Do you know Lady Vandeleur?” 

“I am her private secretary,” replied Harry, with 
a glow of modest pride. 

“She is pretty, is she not?” pursued the servant. 

“Oh, beautiful!” cried Harry; “wonderfully 
lovely, and not less good and kind!” 

“You look kind enough yourself,” she retorted; 
“and I wager you are worth a dozen Lady Van- 
deleurs.” 

Harry was properly scandalized. 

“I?” he cried. “I am only a secretary!” 

“Do you mean that for me?” said the girl. “Be- 
cause I am only a housemaid, if you please.” And 
then, relenting at the sight of Harry's obvious con- 
fusion, “I know you mean nothing of the sort,” she 
added; “and I like your looks; but I think nothing 
of your Lady Vandeleur. Oh, these mistresses!” she 
cried. “To send out a real gentleman like you — with 
a bandbox — in broad day!” 

During this talk they had remained in their orig- 
inal positions — she on the doorstep, he on the side- 
walk, bareheaded for the sake of coolness, and with 
244 


STORY OF THE BANDBOX 


the bandbox on his arm. But upon this last speech 
Harry, who was unable to support such point-blank 
compliments to his appearance, nor the encouraging 
look with which they were accompanied, began to 
change his attitude, and glance from left to right in 
perturbation. In so doing he turned his face toward 
the lower end of the lane, and there, to his indescrib- 
able dismay, his eyes encountered those of General 
Vandeleur. The general, in a prodigious fluster of 
heat, hurry and indignation, had been scouring the 
streets in chase of his brother-in-law; but so soon as 
he caught a glimpse of the delinquent secretary his 
purpose changed, his anger flowed into a new chan- 
nel, and he turned on his heel and came tearing up 
the lane with truculent gestures and vociferations. 

Harry made but one bolt of it into the house, driv- 
ing the maid before him; and the door was slammed 
in his pursuer’s countenance. 

“Is there a bar? Will it lock?” asked Harry, while 
a salvo on the knocker made the house echo from wall 
to wall. 

“Why, what is wrong with you?” asked the maid. 
“Is it this old gentleman?” 

“If he gets hold of me,” whispered Harry, “I am 
as good as dead. He has been pursuing me all day, 
carries a sword-stick, and is an Indian military of- 
ficer.” 

“These are fine manners,” cried the maid. “And 
what, if you please, may be his name?” 

245 


THE BOY SCOUTS BOOK OF STORIES 


“It is the general, my master,” answered Harry. 
“He is after this bandbox.” 

“Did not I tell you?” cried the maid in triumph. 
“I told you I thought worse than nothing of your 
Lady Vandeleur; and if you had an eye in your head 
you might see what she is for yourself. An ungrate- 
ful minx, I will be bound for that!” 

The general renewed his attack upon the knocker, 
and his passion growing with delay, began to kick and 
beat upon the panels of the door. 

“It is lucky,” observed the girl, “that I am alone 
in the house; your general may hammer until he is 
weary, and there is none to open for him. Follow 
me!” 

So saying she led Harry into the kitchen, where 
she made him sit down, and stood by him herself in 
an affectionate attitude, with a hand upon his shoul- 
der. The din at the door, so far from abating, con- 
tinued to increase in volume, and at each blow the 
unhappy secretary was shaken to the heart. 

“What is your name?” asked the girl. 

“Harry Hartley,” he replied. 

“Mine,” she went on, “is Prudence. Do you like 
it?” 

“Very much,” said Harry. “But hear for a mo- 
ment how the general beats upon the door. He will 
certainly break it in, and then, in Heaven’s name, what 
have I to look for but death ?” 

“You put yourself very much about with no oc- 
246 


STORY OF THE BANDBOX 


casion,” answered Prudence. “Let your general 
knock, he will do no more than blister his hands. Do 
you think I would keep you here if I were not sure to 
save you? Oh, no, I am a good friend to those that 
please me ! and we have a back door upon another lane. 
But,” she added, checking him, for he had got upon 
his feet immediately on this welcome news, “but I 
will not show where it is unless you kiss me. Will 
you, Harry?” 

“That I will,” he cried, remembering his gallantry, 
“not for your back door, but because you are good 
and pretty.” 

And he administered two or three cordial salutes, 
which were returned to him in kind. 

Then Prudence led him to the back gate, and put 
her hand upon the key. 

“Will you come and see me?” she asked. 

“I will, indeed,” said Harry. “Do not I owe you 
my life?” 

“And now,” she added, opening the door, “run as 
hard as you can, for I shall let in the general.” 

Harry scarcely required this advice; fear had him 
by the forelock; and he addressed himself diligently 
to flight. A few steps, and he believed he would re- 
turn to Lady Vandeleur in honor and safety. But 
these few steps had not been taken before he heard a 
man’s voice, hailing him by name with many execra- 
tions, and, looking over his shoulder, he beheld 
Charlie Pendragon waving him with both arms to re- 
247 


THE BOY SCOUTS BOOK OF STORIES 


turn. The shock of this new incident was so sudden 
and profound, and Harry was already worked into 
so high a state of nervous tension, that he could think 
of nothing better than to accelerate his pace, and con- 
tinue running. He should certainly have remembered 
the scene in Kensington Gardens; he should certainly 
have concluded that, where the general was his enemy, 
Charlie Pendragon could be no other than a friend. 
But such was the fever and perturbation of his mind 
that he was struck by none of these considerations, 
and only continued to run the faster up the lane. 

Charlie, by the sound of his voice and the vile terms 
that he hurled after the secretary, was obviously be- 
side himself with rage. He, too, ran his very best; 
but, try as he might, the physical advantages were not 
upon his side, and his outcries and the fall of his lame 
foot on the macadam began to fall further and fur- 
ther into the wake. 

Harry's hopes began once more to arise. The lane 
was both steep and narrow, but it was exceedingly 
solitary, bordered on either hand by garden walls, 
overhung with foliage; and, for as far as the fugitive 
could see in front of him, there was neither a creature 
moving nor an open door. Providence, weary of per- 
secution, was now offering him an open field for his 
escape. 

Alas ! as he came abreast of a garden door under a 
tuft of chestnuts, it was suddenly drawn back, and he 
could see inside, upon a garden path, the figure of a 
248 


STORY OF THE BANDBOX 

butcher's boy with his tray upon his arm. He had 
hardly recognized the fact before he was some steps 
beyond upon the other side. But the fellow had had 
time to observe him ; he was evidently much surprised 
to see a gentleman go by at so unusual a pace; and 
he came out into the lane and began to call after Harry 
with shouts of ironical encouragement. 

His appearance gave a new idea to Charlie Pen- 
dragon, who, although he was now sadly out of 
breath, once more upraised his voice. 

“Stop thief !" he cried. 

And immediately the butcher's boy had taken up 
the cry and joined in the pursuit. 

This was a bitter moment for the hunted secretary. 
It is true that his terror enabled him once more to 
improve his pace, and gain with every step on his 
pursuers; but he was well aware that he was near 
the end of his resources, and should he meet any one 
coming the other way, his predicament in the narrow 
lane would be desperate indeed. 

“I must find a place of concealment," he thought, 
“and that within the next few seconds, or all is over 
with me in this world." 

Scarcely had the thought crossed his mind than the 
lane took a sudden turning; and he found himself 
hidden from his enemies. There are circumstances 
in which even the least energetic of mankind learn to 
behave with vigor and decision ; and the more cautious 
forget their prudence and embrace foolhardy resolu- 

249 


THE BOY SCOUTS BOOK OF STORIES 


tions. This was one of those occasions for Harry 
Hartley; and those who knew him best would have 
been the most astonished at the lad’s audacity. He 
stopped dead, flung the bandbox over a garden wall, 
and, leaping upward with incredible agility and seiz- 
ing the copestone with his hands, he tumbled headlong 
after it into the garden. 

He came to himself a moment afterward, seated in 
a border of small rosebushes. His hands and knees 
were cut and bleeding, for the wall had been pro- 
tected against such an escalade by a liberal provision 
of old bottles; and he was conscious of a general dis- 
location and a painful swimming in the head. Fac- 
ing him across the garden, which was in admirable 
order, and set with flowers of the most delicious per- 
fume, he beheld the back of a house. It was of con- 
siderable extent, and plainly habitable; but, in odd 
contrast to the grounds, it was crazy, ill-kept, and of 
a mean appearance. On all other sides the circuit of 
the garden wall appeared unbroken. 

He took in these features of the scene with me- 
chanical glances, but his mind was still unable to piece 
together or draw a rational conclusion from what he 
saw. And when he heard footsteps advancing on the 
gravel, although he turned his eyes in that direction, 
it was with no thought either for defense or flight. 

The newcomer was a large, coarse, and very sordid 
personage, in gardening clothes, and with a w r atering- 
pot in his left hand. One less confused would have 
250 


STORY OF THE BANDBOX 


been affected with some alarm at the sight of this 
man’s huge proportions and black and lowering eyes. 
But Harry was too gravely shaken by his fall to be so 
much as terrified; and if he was unable to divert his 
glances from the gardener, he remained absolutely 
passive, and suffered him to draw near, to take him 
by the shoulder, and to plant him roughly on his feet, 
without a motion of resistance. 

For a moment the two stared into each other’s eyes, 
Harry fascinated, the man filled with wrath and a 
cruel, sneering humor. 

“Who are you?” he demanded at last. “Who are 
you to come flying over my wall and break my Gloire 
de Dijonsf What is your name?” he added, shaking 
him; “and what may be your business here?” 

Harry could not as much as proffer a word in ex- 
planation. 

But just at that moment Pendragon and the butch- 
er’s boy went clumping past, and the sound of their 
feet and their hoarse cries echoed loudly in the nar- 
row lane. The gardener had received his answer ; and 
he looked down into Harry’s face with an obnoxious 
smile. 

“A thief!” he said. “Upon my word, and a very 
good thing you must make of it ; for I see you dressed 
like a gentleman from top to toe. Are you not 
ashamed to go about the world in such a trim, with 
honest folk, I dare say, glad to buy your cast-off finery 
second-hand? Speak up, you dog,” the man went on; 

251 


THE BOY SCOUTS BOOK OF STORIES 

“you can understand English, I suppose; and I mean 
to have a bit of talk with you before I march you to 
the station.” 

“Indeed, sir,” said Harry, “this is all a dreadful mis- 
conception; and if you will go with me to Sir Thomas 
Vandeleur’s in Eaton Place, I can promise that all 
will be made plain. The most upright person, as I 
now perceive, can be led into suspicious positions.” 

“My little man,” replied the gardener, “I will go 
with you no further than the station-house in the next 
street. The inspector, no doubt, will be glad to take 
a stroll with you as far as Eaton Place, and have a 
bit of afternoon tea with your great acquaintances. 
Or would you prefer to go direct to the home secre- 
tary? Sir Thomas Vandeleur, indeed ! Perhaps you 
think I don’t know a gentleman when I see one, from 
a common run-the-hedge like you? Clothes or no 
clothes, I can read you like a book. Here is a shirt 
that maybe cost as much as my Sunday hat; and that 
coat, I take it, has never seen the inside of Rag-fair, 
and then your boots ” 

The man, whose eyes had fallen upon the ground, 
stopped short in his insulting commentary, and re- 
mained for a moment looking intently upon something 
at his feet. When he spoke his voice was strangely 
altered. 

“What, in God’s name,” said he, “is all this?” 

Harry, following the direction of the man’s eyes, 
beheld a spectacle that struck him dumb with terror 
252 


STORY OF THE BANDBOX 


and amazement. In his fall he had descended ver- 
tically upon the bandbox and burst it open from end 
to end; thence a great treasure of diamonds had 
poured forth, and now lay abroad, part trodden in the 
soil, part scattered on the surface in regal and glit- 
tering profusion. There was a magnificent coronet 
which he had often admired on Lady Vandeleur; there 
were rings and brooches, eardrops and bracelets, and 
even unset brilliants rolling here and there among the 
rosebushes like drops of morning dew. A princely 
fortune lay between the two men upon the ground — 
a fortune in the most inviting, solid, and durable form, 
capable of being carried in an apron, beautiful in it- 
self, and scattering the sunlight in a million rainbow 
flashes. 

“Good Heavens !” said Harry. “I am lost !” 

His mind raced backward into the past with the in- 
calculable velocity of thought, and he began to com- 
prehend his day’s adventures, to conceive them as a 
whole, and to recognize the sad imbroglio in which 
his own character and fortunes had become involved. 
He looked round him, as if for help, but he was alone 
in the garden, with his scattered diamonds and his re- 
doubtable interlocutor; and when he gave ear, there 
was no sound but the rustle of the leaves and the hur- 
ried pulsation of his heart. It was little wonder if the 
young man felt himself a little deserted by his spir- 
its, and with a broken voice repeated his last ejacula- 
tion: 


253 


THE BOY SCOUTS BOOK OF STORIES 


“I am lost!” 

The gardener peered in all directions with an air of 
guilt; but there was no face. at any of the windows, 
and he seemed to breathe again. 

“Pick up a heart,” he said, “you fool! The worst 
of it is done. Why could you not say at first there 
was enough for two? Two!” he repeated, “ay, and 
for two hundred ! But come away from here, where 
we may be observed; and, for the love of wisdom, 
straighten out your hat and brush your clothes. You 
could not travel two steps the figure of fun you look 
just now.” 

While Harry mechanically adopted these sugges- 
tions, the gardener, getting upon his knees, hastily 
drew together the scattered jewels and returned them 
to the bandbox. The touch of these costly crystals 
sent a shiver of emotion through the man’s stalwart 
frame; his face was transfigured, and his eyes shone 
with concupiscence; indeed, it seemed as if he lux- 
uriously prolonged his occupation, and dallied with 
every diamond that he handled. At last, however, it 
was done; and, concealing the bandbox in his smock, 
the gardener beckoned to Harry and preceded him in 
the direction of the house. 

Near the door they were met by a young man evi- 
dently in holy orders, dark and strikingly handsome, 
with a look of mingled weakness and resolution, and 
very neatly attired after the manner of his caste. The 
gardener was plainly annoyed by this encounter; but 
254 


STORY OF THE BANDBOX 

he put as good a face upon it as he could, and accosted 
the clergyman with an obsequious and smiling air. 

“Here is a fine afternoon, Mr. Rolles,” said he; “a 
fine afternoon, as sure as God made it ! And here is 
a young friend of mine who had a fancy to look at 
my roses. I took the liberty to bring him in, for I 
thought none of the lodgers would object.” 

“Speaking for myself,” replied the Reverend Mr. 
Rolles, “I do not; nor do I fancy any of the rest of 
us would be more difficult upon so small a matter. 
The garden is your own, Mr. Raeburn; we must none 
of us forget that; and because you give us liberty to 
walk there we should be indeed ungracious if we so 
far presumed upon your politeness as to interfere with 
the convenience of your friends. But, on second 
thoughts,” he added, “I believe that tiiis gentleman and 
I have met before. Mr. Hartley, I think. I regret 
to observe that you have had a fall.” 

And he offered his hand. 

A sort of maiden dignity and a desire to delay as 
long as possible the necessity for explanation moved 
Harry to refuse this chance of help, and to deny his 
own identity. He chose the tender mercies of the 
gardener, who was at least unknown to him, rather 
than the curiosity and perhaps the doubts of an ac- 
quaintance. 

“I fear there is some mistake,” said he. “My name 
is Thomlinson, and I am a friend of Mr. Raeburn’s.” 
255 


THE BOY SCOUTS BOOK OF STORIES 


“Indeed?” said Mr. Rolles. “The likeness is amaz- 
ing.” \ 

Mr. Raeburn, who had been upon thorns throughout 
this colloquy, now felt it high time to bring it to a 
period. 

“I wish you a pleasant saunter, sir,” said he. 

And with that he dragged Harry after him into the 
house, and then into a chamber on the garden. His 
first care was to draw down the blind, for Mr. Rolles 
still remained where they had left him, in an attitude 
of perplexity and thought. Then he emptied the 
broken bandbox on the table, and stood before the 
treasure, thus fully displayed, with an expression of 
rapturous greed, and rubbing his hand upon his 
thighs. For Harry, the sight of the man’s face under 
the influence of this base emotion added another pang 
to those he was already suffering. It seemed incred- 
ible that, from his life of pure and delicate trifling, 
he should be plunged in a breath among sordid and 
criminal relations. He could reproach his conscience 
with no sinful act; and yet he was now suffering the 
punishment of sin in its most acute and cruel forms 
— the dread of punishment, the suspicions of the 
good, and the companionship and contamination of 
vile and brutal natures. He felt he could lay his life 
down with gladness to escape from the room and the 
society of Mr. Raeburn. 

“And now,” said the latter, after he had separated 
the jewels into two nearly equal parts, and drawn one 
256 


» 


STORY OF THE BANDBOX 


of them nearer to himself ; “and now,” said he, 
“everything in this world has to be paid for, and some 
things sweetly. You must know, Mr. Hartley, if such 
be your name, that I am a man of a very easy temper, 
and good nature has been my stumbling block from 
first to last. I could pocket the whole of these pretty 
pebbles, if I chose, and I should like to see you dare 
to say a word ; but I think I must have taken a liking 
to you ; for I declare I have not the heart to shave you 
so close. So, do you see, in pure kind feeling, I pro- 
pose that we divide; and these,” indicating the two 
heaps, “are the proportions that seem to me just and 
friendly. Do you see any objection, Mr. Hartley, 
may I ask ? Iam not the man to stick upon a brooch.” 

“But, sir,” cried Harry, “what you propose to me 
is impossible. The jewels are not mine, and I cannot 
share what is another’s, no matter with whom, nor in 
what proportions.” 

“They are not yours, are they not?” returned Rae- 
burn. “And you could not share them with anybody, 
couldn’t you? Well, now, that is what I call a pity; 
for here I am obliged to take you to the station. The 
police — think of that,” he continued; “think of the 
disgrace for your respectable parents; think,” he went 
on, taking Harry by the wrist ; “think of the Colonies 
and the Day of Judgment.” 

“I cannot help it,” wailed Harry. “It is not my 
fault. You will not come with me to Eaton Place.” 

“No,” replied the man, “I will not, that is certain. 
257 


THE BOY SCOUTS BOOK OF STORIES 


And I mean to divide these playthings with you here.” 
/ And so saying he applied a sudden and severe tor- 
sion to the lad's wrist. 

Harry could not suppress a scream, and the per- 
spiration burst forth upon his face. Perhaps pain 
and terror quickened his intelligence, but certainly at 
that moment the whole business flashed across him in 
another light ; and he saw that there was nothing for it 
but to accede to the ruffian’s proposal, and trust to 
find the house and force him to disgorge, under more 
favorable circumstances, and when he himself was 
clear from all suspicion. 

“I agree,” he said. 

“There is a lamb,” sneered the gardener. “I thought 
you would recognize your interests at last. This band- 
box,” he continued, “I shall burn with my rubbish; it 
is a thing that curious folk might recognize; and as 
for you, scrape up your gayeties and put them in your 
pocket.” 

Harry proceeded to obey, Raeburn watching him, 
and every now and again, his greed rekindled by some 
bright scintillation, abstracting another jewel from 
the secretary’s share, and adding it to his own. 

• When this was finished, both proceeded to the front 
door, which Raeburn cautiously opened to observe the 
street. This was apparently clear of passengers; for 
he suddenly seized Harry by the nape of the neck, and 
holding his face downward so that he could see noth- 
ing but the roadway and the doorsteps of the houses, 
258 


STORY OF THE BANDBOX 


pushed him violently before him down one street and 
up another for the space of perhaps a minute and a 
half. Harry had counted three corners before the 
bully relaxed his grasp, and crying, “Now be off with 
you!” sent the lad flying headforemost with a well- 
directed and athletic kick. 

When Harry gathered himself up, half-stunned and 
bleeding freely at the nose, Mr. Raeburn had entirely 
disappeared. For the first time, anger and pain so 
completely overcame the lad’s spirits that he burst 
into a fit of tears and remained sobbing in the middle 
of the road. 

After he had thus somewhat assuaged his emotion, 
he began to look about him and read the names of the 
streets at whose intersection he had been deserted by 
the gardener. He was still in an unfrequented por- 
tion of West London, among villas and large gardens; 
but he could see some persons at a window who had 
evidently witnessed his misfortune; and almost im- 
mediately after a servant came running from the house 
and offered him a glass of water. At the same time, 
a dirty rogue, who had been slouching somewhere in 
the neighborhood, drew near him from the other side. 

“Poor fellow,” said the maid, “how vilely you have 
been handled, to be sure! Why, your knees are all 
cut, and your clothes ruined ! Do you know the wretch 
who used you so?” 

“That I do!” cried Harry, who was somewhat re- 
freshed by the water; “and shall run him home in spite 
259 


THE BOY SCOUTS BOOK OF STORIES 


of his precautions. He shall pay dearly for this day’s 
work, I promise you.” 

“You had better come into the house and have your- 
self washed and brushed,” continued the maid. “My 
mistress will make you welcome, never fear. And see, 
I will pick up your hat. Why, love of mercy!” she 
screamed, “if you have not dropped diamonds all over 
the street !” 

Such was the case; a good half of what remained to 
him after the depredations of Mr. Raeburn had been 
shaken out of his pockets by the somersault, and once 
more lay glittering on the ground. He blessed his 
fortune that the maid had been so quick of eye; “there 
is nothing so bad but it might be worse,” thought he ; 
and the recovery of these few seemed to him almost 
as great an affair as the loss of all the rest. But, 
alas ! as he stooped to pick up his treasures the loiterer 
made a rapid onslaught, overset both Harry and the 
maid with a movement of his arms, swept up a double 
handful of the diamonds, and made off along the street 
with an amazing swiftness. 

Harry, as soon as he could get upon his feet, gave 
chase to the miscreant with many cries, but the latter 
was too fleet of foot, and probably too well acquainted 
with the locality ; for turn where the pursuer would he 
could find no traces of the fugitive. 

In the deepest despondency Harry revisited the 
scene of his mishap, where the maid, who was still 
waiting, very honestly returned to him his hat and 
260 


STORY OF THE BANDBOX 


the remainder of the fallen diamonds. Harry thanked 
her from his heart, and being now in no humor for 
economy, made his way to the nearest cab stand, and 
set off for Eaton Place by coach. 

The house, on his arrival, seemed in some con- 
fusion, as if a catastrophe had happened in the fam- 
ily; and the servants clustered together in the hall, 
and were unable, or perhaps not altogether anxious, 
to suppress their merriment at the tatterdemalion fig- 
ure of the secretary. He passed them with as good 
an air of dignity as he could assume, and made di- 
rectly for the boudoir. When he opened the door, an 
astonishing and even menacing spectacle presented it- 
self to his eyes; for he beheld the general and his wife, 
and, of all people, Charlie Pendragon, closeted to- 
gether, and speaking with earnestness and gravity on 
some important subject. Harry saw at once that there 
was little left for him to explain — plenary confession 
had plainly been made to the general of the intended 
fraud upon his pocket, and the unfortunate miscar- 
riage of the scheme; and they had all made common 
cause against a common danger. 

‘‘Thank Heaven !” cried Lady Vandeleur, “here he 
is ! The bandbox, Harry, the bandbox !” 

But Harry stood before them silent and downcast. 

“Speak !” she cried. “Speak ! Where is the band- 
box?’’ 


And the men, with threatening gestures, repeated 
the demand. 


2611 


THE BOY SCOUTS BOOK OF STORIES 


Harry drew a handful of jewels from his pocket. 
He was very white. 

“This is all that remains,” said he. “I declare be- 
fore Heaven it was through no fault of mine; and if 
you will have patience, although some are lost, I am 
afraid, forever, others, I am sure, may be still recov- 
ered!” 

“Alas!” cried Lady Vandeleur, “all our diamonds 
are gone, and I owe ninety thousand pounds for 
dress!” 

“Madam,” said the general, “you might have paved 
the gutter with your own trash ; you might have made 
debts to fifty times the sum you mention; you might 
have robbed me of my mother's coronet and rings; 
and Nature might have still so far prevailed that I 
could have forgiven you at last. But, madam, you 
have taken the Rajah's Diamond — the Eye of Light, 
as the Orientals poetically termed it — the Pride of 
Kashgar! You have taken from me the Rajah’s Dia- 
mond,” he cried, raising his hands, “and all, madam, 
all is at an end between us !” 

“Believe me, General Vandeleur,” she replied, “that 
is one of the most agreeable speeches that ever I heard 
from your lips ; and since we are to be ruined I could 
almost welcome the change, if it delivers me from 
you. You have told me often enough that I married 
you for your money ; let me tell you now that I always 
bitterly repented the bargain; and if you were still 
marriageable, and had a diamond bigger than your 
262 


STORY OF THE BANDBOX 

head, I should counsel even my maid against a union 
so uninviting and disastrous. As for you, Mr. Hart- 
ley, she continued, turning on the secretary, “you 
have sufficiently exhibited your valuable qualities in 
this house; we are now persuaded that you equally 
lack manhood, sense and self-respect; and I can see 
only one course open for you — to withdraw instanter, 
and, if possible, return no more. For your wages 
you may rank as a creditor in my late husband’s bank- 
ruptcy.” 

Harry had scarcely comprehended this insulting ad- 
dress before the general was down upon him with an- 
other. 

“And in the meantime,” said that personage, “fol- 
low me before the nearest inspector of police. You 
may impose upon a simple-minded soldier, sir, but 
the eye of the law will read your disreputable secret. 
If I must spend my old age in poverty through your 
underhand intriguing with my wife, I mean at least 
that you shall not remain unpunished for your pains ; 
and God, sir, will deny me a very considerable sat- 
isfaction if you do not pick oakum from now until 
your dying day.” 

With that the general dragged Harry from the 
apartment and hurried him down-stairs and along the 
street to the police-station of the district. 

Here (says my Arabian author) ended this deplor- 
able business of the bandbox. But to the unfortu- 
nate secretary the whole affair was the beginning of 
263 


THE BOY SCOUTS BOOK OF STORIES 

a new and manlier life. The police were easily per- 
suaded of his innocence ; and, after he had given what 
help he could in the subsequent investigation, he was 
even complimented by one of the chiefs of the de- 
tective department on the probity and simplicity of 
his behavior. Several persons interested themselves 
in one so unfortunate; and soon after he inherited a 
sum of money from a maiden aunt in Worcestershire. 
With this he married Prudence, and set sail for Ben- 
digo, or, according to another account, for Trincoma- 
lee, exceedingly content, and with the best of pros- 
pects. 



XHL — The Hero and the Cowboy* 

By Joseph C. Lincoln 

Not every boy -is permitted to spend a vacation down 
Cape Cod way in Massachusetts. The next best thing to 
that is reading “Joe” Lincoln’s books about the folks who 
live there. Conspicuous among them is Captain Bailey 
Stitt. He had in his long life many unusual adventures , 
but if any of you boys should chance to meet him and ask 
what was the most remarkable of all, undoubtedly he would 
tell you of his cruise in the red motorcar — the “buzz wagon,” 
as he called it . — The Editor. 

O F course,” said Captain Bailey Stitt mus- 
ingly, ”1 didn’t know the critter was weak 
in his top riggin’ or I wouldn’t have gone 
with him in the fust place. And he wan’t real loony, 
nuther. ’Twas only when he got aboard that — that 
ungodly kerosene-smellin’, tootin’, buzzin’, Old 
Harry’s go-cart of his that the craziness begun to 
show. There’s so many of them weak-minded city 
folks from the Ocean House comes perusin’ ’round 
here summers, nowadays, that I cal’lated he was just 
an average specimen, and never examined him close.” 

* Reprinted from “The Depot Master.” Copyright, 1910, by 
D. Appleton and Company. 

265 


THE BOY SCOUTS BOOK OF STORIES 


“Are all the Ocean House boarders weak-minded?” 
I inquired, seeking information. 

Captain Bailey bounced on his overturned mackerel- 
keg like a fat, tan-colored rubber ball. 

“My land!” he snapped. “Would they board at 
the Ocean House if they wan’t weak-minded? This 
feller wan’t an Ocean Houser, though. He was young 
Stumpton’s automobile skipper-shover, or shofer, or 
somethin’ they called him. He answered to the hail 
of Billings, and his home port was the Stumptons’ 
ranch, way out in Montana. He’d been here in Or- 
ham only a couple of weeks, havin’ come plumb across 
the United States to fetch his boss the new automobile. 
You see, ’twas early October. The Stumptons had 
left their summer place on the Cliff Road, and was 
on their way south for the winter. Young Stumpton 
was up to Boston, but he was cornin’ back in a couple 
of days, and then him and the shover was goin’ auto- 
mobilin’ to Florida. To Florida, mind you! In that 
thing! If it was me I’d buy my ticket to Tophet 
direct and save time and money. 

“Well, anyhow, this critter Billings he ain’t never 
smelt salt water afore, and he don’t like the smell. 
He makes proclamations that Orham is nothin’ but 
sand, slush, and soft drinks. He won’t sail, he can’t 
swim, he won’t fish : but he’s hankerin’ to shoot some- 
thin’, havin’ been brought up in a place where if you 
don’t shoot some of the neighbors every day or so 
folks think you’re stuck up and dissociable. Then 
266 


THE HERO AND THE COWBOY 


somebody tells him it’s the duckin’ season down to 
Setuckit P’int, and he says he’ll spend his day off, 
while the boss is away, massycreein’ the coots there. 
This same somebody whispers that I know so much 
about ducks that I quack when I talk, and he comes 
cruisin’ over in the buzz-cart to hire me for guide. 
And — would you b’lieve it? — it turns out that he’s 
cal’latin’ to make his duckin’ v’yage in that very cart. 
I was for makin’ the trip in a boat, like a sensible 
man, but he wouldn’t hear of it. 

“ 'Land of love!’ says I. ‘Go to Setuckit in a auto- 
mobile ?’ 

“ ‘Why not?’ he says. ‘The biscuit-shooter up at the 
hotel tells me there’s a smart chance of folks goes 
there a-horse-back. And where a hoss can travel I 
reckon the old gal here’ — slappin* the thwart of the 
auto alongside of him — ‘can go too !’ 

“ ‘But there’s the Cut-through,’ says I. 

“ ‘Tain’t nothin’ but a creek when the freshet’s 
over, they tell me,’ says he. ‘And me and the boss 
have forded four foot of river in this very machine.’ 

“By the ’freshet’ bein’ over I judged he meant the 
tide bein’ out. And the Cut-through ain’t but a little 
trickle then, though it’s a quarter-mile wide and deep 
enough to float a schooner at high-water. It’s the 
strip of channel that makes Setuckit Beach an island, 
you know. The gov’ment has had engineers down 
dredgin’ of it out, and pretty soon fish-boats ’ll be able 
267 


THE BOY SCOUTS BOOK OF STORIES 


to save the twenty-mile sail around the P’int and into 
Orham Harbor at all hours. 

“Well, to make a long story short, I agreed to let 
him cart me to Setuckit P’int in that everlastin’ gas- 
carryall. We was to start at four o’clock in the 
afternoon, ’cause the tide at the Cut-through would 
be dead low at half-past four. We’d stay overnight 
at my shanty at the P’int, get up airly, shoot all day, 
and come back the next afternoon. 

“At four prompt he was on hand, ready for me. I 
loaded in the guns and grub and one thing or ’nother, 
and then ’twas time for me to get aboard myself. 

“ ‘You’ll set in the tonneau,’ says he, indicatin’ the 
upholstered after-cockpit of the concern. I opened 
up the shiny hatch, under orders from him, and 
climbed in amongst the upholstery. ’Twas soft as 
a feather-bed. 

“ ‘Jerushy!’ sa ys I, lollin’ back luxurious. ‘This is 
fine, ain’t it?’ 

“ ‘Cost seventy-five hundred to build/ he says, 
casual. ‘Made to order for the boss. Lightest car 
of her speed ever turned out.’ 

“ ‘Go ’way! How you talk! Seventy-five hundred 
what? Not dollars?’ 

“ ‘Sure,’ he says. Then he turns round — he was 
in the bow, hangin’ on to the steerin’-wheel — and looks 
me over, kind of interested, but superior. ‘Say,’ he 
says, ‘I’ve been hearin’ things about you. You’re a 
hero, ain’t you?’ 


268 


THE HERO AND THE COWBOY 


“Durn them Orham gabblers ! Ever sence I hauled 
that crew of seasick summer boarders out of the drink 
a couple of years ago and the gov’ment gave me a 
medal, the minister and some more of his gang have 
painted out the name I was launched under and had me 
entered on the shippin’-list as ‘The Hero.* I’ve licked 
two or three for callin’ me that, but I can’t lick a par- 
son, and he was the one that told Billings. 

“ ‘Oh, I don’t know !’ I answers, pretty sharp. ‘Get 
her under way, why don’t you ?’ 

“All he done was look me over some more and grin. 

“‘A hero! A real, live gov’ment-branded hero!’ 
he says. ‘Ain’t scared of nothin’, I reckon — hey?’ 

“I never made no answer. There’s some things 
that’s too fresh to eat without salt, and I didn’t have 
a pickle-tub handy. 

“ ‘Hum !’ he says again, reverend-like. ‘A sure 
hero ; scared of nothin’ ! Never rode in an auto afore, 
did you ?’ 

“ ‘No,’ says I, peppery ; ‘and I don’t see no present 
symptoms of ridin’ in one now. Cast off, won’t you ?’ 

“He cast off. That is to say, he hauled a nickel- 
plated marlinspike thing towards him, shoved another 
one away from him, took a twist on the steerin’- 
wheel, the go-cart coughed like a horse with the heaves, 
started up some sort of buzz-planer underneath, and 
then we begun to move. 

“From the time we left my shanty at South Orham 
till we passed the pines at Herrin’ Neck I laid back 
269 


THE BOY SCOUTS BOOK OF STORIES 


in that stuffed cockpit, feelin’ as grand and tainted as 
old John D. himself. The automobile rolled along 
smooth but swift, and it seemed to me I had never 
known what easy trav’lin’ was afore. As we rounded 
the bend by the pines and opened up the twelve-mile 
narrow white stretch of Setuckit Beach ahead of us, 
with the ocean on one side and the bay on t’other, 
I looked at my watch. We’d come that fur in thirteen 
minutes. 

“ ‘Land sakes !’ I says. ‘This is what I call movin’ 
right along!’ 

“He turned round and sized me up again, like he 
was surprised. 

“ ‘Movin’ ?’ says he. ‘Movin’ ? Why, pard, we’ve 
been settin’ down to rest! Out our way if a lynchin’ 
party didn’t move faster than we’ve done so fur, the 
center of attraction would die on the road of old age. 
Now, my heroic college chum,’ he goes on, callin’ me 
out of my name as usual, ‘will you be so condescendin’ 
as to indicate how we hit the trail ?’ 

“ Hit — hit which? Don’t hit nothin’, for goodness’ 
sake ! Goin’ the way we be, it would ’ 

“ ‘Which way do we go?’ 

“ ‘Right straight ahead. Keep on the ocean side, 
’cause there’s more hard sand there, and — hold on! 
Don’t do that ! Stop it, I tell you !’ 

“Them was the last rememberable words said by 
me durin’ the next quarter of an hour. That shover 
man let out a hair-raisin’ yell, hauled the nickel mar- 
270 


THE HERO AND THE COWBOY 

linespike over in its rack, and squeezed a rubber bag 
that was spliced to the steerin’-wheel. There was a 
half dozen toots or howls or honks from under our 
bows somewheres, and then that automobile hopped off 
the ground and commenced to fly. The fust hop 
landed me on my knees in the cockpit, and there I 
stayed. ’Twas the most fittin’ position fur my frame 
of mind and chimed in fust-rate with the general 
religious drift of my thoughts. 

“The Cut-through is two mile or more from Herrin* 
Neck. ’Cording to my count we hit terra cotta just 
three times in them two miles. The fust hit knocked 
my hat off. The second one chucked me up so high I 
looked back for the hat, and though we was a half mile 
away from it, it hadn’t had time to git to the ground. 
And all the while the horn was a honkin’, and Billings 
was a screechin’, and the sand was a flyin’. Sand! 
Why, say! Do you see that extra bald place on the 
back of my head? Yes? Well, there was a two-inch 
thatch of hair there afore that sand-blast ground it off. 

“When I went up on the third jounce I noticed 
the Cut-through just ahead. Billings see it, too, and 
— would you b’lieve it? — the lunatic stood up, let go 
of the wheel with one hand, takes off his hat and 
waves it, and we charge down across them wet tide 
flats like death on the woolly horse, in Scriptur’. 

“ ‘Hi, yah ! Yip !’ whoops Billings. ‘Come on 
in, fellers! The water’s fine! Yow! Y-e-e-e! 
Yip!’ 


271 


THE BOY SCOUTS BOOK OF STORIES 


'‘For a second it left off rainin’ sand, and there was 
a typhoon of mud and spray. I see a million of the 
prettiest rainbows — that is, I cal’lated there was a 
million; it’s awful hard to count when you’re bouncin’ 
and prayin’ and drowndin’ all to once. Then we sizzed 
out of the channel, over the flats on t’other side, and 
on towards Setuckit. 

“Never mind the rest of the ride. ’Twas all a sort 
of constant changin’ sameness. I remember passin’ 
a blurred life-savin’ station, with three — or maybe 
thirty — blurred men jumpin’ and laughin’ and hollerin’. 
I found out afterwards that they’d been on the look- 
out for the bombshell for half an hour. Billings had 
told around town what he was goin’ to do to me, and 
some kind friend had telephoned it to the station. So 
the life-savers was full of anticipations. I hope they 
were satisfied. I hadn’t rehearsed my part of the 
show none, but I feel what the parson calls a conscious- 
ness of havin’ done my best. 

“ ‘Woa, gal!’ says Billings, calm and easy, puttin’ 
the helm hard down. The auto was standin’ still at 
last. Part of me was hangin’ over the lee rail. I 
could see out of the part, so I know ’twas my head. 
And there alongside was my fish-shanty at the P’int, 
goin’ round and round in circles. 

“I undid the hatch of the cockpit and fell out on the 
sand. Then I scrambled up and caught hold of the 
shanty as it went past me. That fool shover watched 
me, seemin’ly interested. 

272 


» 



“for a second it left off rainin’ sand, and there was a typhoon of mud 

AND SPRAY” 




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' > * 


4 






H 

* 








♦ 






































X 


«*• 


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* 























THE HERO AND THE COWBOY 


“ 4 Why, pard,’ says he, ‘what's the matter ? Do 
you feel pale? Are you nervous? It ain’t possible 
that you’re scared? Honest, now, pard, if it weren’t 
that I knew you were a genuine gold-mounted hero 
I’d sure think you was a scared man.’ 

“I never said nothin’. The scenery and me was 
just turnin’ the mark buoy on our fourth lap. 

“ ‘Dear me, pard !’ continues Billings. ‘I sure hope 
I ain’t scared you none. We come down a little slow 
this evenin’, but to-morrow night, when I take you 
back home, I’ll let the old girl out a little.’ 

“I sensed some of that. And as the shanty had 
about come to anchor, I answered and spoke my mind. 

“ ‘When you take me back home !’ I says. ‘When 
you do! Why, you crack-brained, murderin’ lunatic, 
I wouldn’t cruise in that buzz-wagon of yours again 
for the skipper’s wages on a Cunarder ! No, nor the 
mate’s hove in!’ 

“And that shover he put his head back and laughed 
and laughed and laughed. 

II 

“I tell you I had to take it that evenin’. All the 
time I was cookin’ and while he was eatin’ supper, Bil- 
lings was rubbin’ it into me about my bein’ scared. 
Called me all the salt-water-hero names he could think 
of — ‘Hobson’ and ‘Dewey’ and the like of that, usin’ 
’em sourcastic, of course. Finally, he said he remem- 
bered readin’ in school, when he was little, about a 
273 


THE BOY SCOUTS BOOK OF STORIES 


girl hero, name of Grace Darlin\ Said he cal’lated, 
if I didn’t mind, he’d call me Grace, ’cause it was 
heroic and yet kind of fitted in with my partic’lar 
brand of bravery. I didn’t answer much; he had me 
down, and I knew it. Likewise I judged he was more 
or less out of his head; no sane man would yell the 
way he done aboard that automobile. 

‘Then he commenced to spin yarns about himself 
and his doin’s, and pretty soon it come out that he’d 
been a cowboy afore young Stumpton give up ranchin’ 
and took to automobilin’. That cleared the sky-line 
some of course; I’d read consider’ble about cowboys 
in the ten-cent books my nephew fetched home when 
he was away to school. I see right off that Billings 
was the livin’ image of Deadwood Dick and Wild Bill 
and the rest in them books; they yelled and howled 
and hadn’t no regard for life and property any more’n 
he had. No, sir! He wan’t no crazier’n they was; 
it was in the breed, I judged. 

“ ‘I sure wish I had you on the ranch, Grace,’ says 
he. ‘Why don’t you come West some day? That’s 
where a hero like you would show up strong.’ 

“ ‘Godfrey mighty!’ I sings out. ‘I wouldn’t come 
nigh such a nest of crazy murderers as that fur no 
money! I’d sooner ride in that automobile of yours, 
and St. Peter himself couldn’t coax me into that again, 
not if ’twas fur a cruise plumb up the middle of the 
golden street !’ 

“I meant it, too, and the next afternoon when it 
274 


THE HERO AND THE COWBOY 

come time to start for home he found out that I 
meant it. We’d shot a lot of ducks, and Billings was 
havin’ such a good time that I had to coax and tease 
him as if he was a young one afore he’d think of 
quittin’. It was quarter of six when he backed the 
gas-cart out of the shed. I was uneasy, ’cause ’twas 
past low-water time, and there was fog cornin’ on. 

“ 'Brace up, Dewey !’ says he. 'Get in.’ 

" 'No, Mr. Billings,’ says I. 'I ain’t goin’ to get in. 
You take that craft of yourn home, and I’ll sail up 
alongside in my dory.’ 

" ‘In your which ?’ says he. 

" ‘In my dory,’ I says. 'That’s her, hauled up on 
the beach abreast the shanty.’ 

"He looked at the dory and then at me. 

" 'Go on !’ says he. 'You ain’t goin’ to pack your- 
self twelve mile on that shingle V 

" 'Sartin I am !’ says I. 'I ain’t takin’ no more 
chances.’ 

"Do you know, he actually seemed to think I was 
crazy then. Seemed to figger that the dory wan’t 
big enough; and she’s carried five easy afore now. 
We had an argument that lasted twenty minutes more, 
and the fog driftin’ in nigher all the time. At last 
he got sick of arguin’, ripped out something brisk 
and personal, and got his tin-shop to movin’. 

" 'You want to cross over to the ocean side,’ I called 
after him. 'The Cut-through’s been dredged at the 
bay end, remember.’ 


275 


THE BOY SCOUTS BOOK OF STORIES 


" 'Be hanged V he yells, or more emphatic. And off 
he whizzed. I see him go and fetched a long breath. 
Thanks to a merciful Providence, Pd come so fur 
without bein’ buttered on the under crust of that auto- 
mobile or scalped with its crazy shover’s bowie-knife. 

"Ten minutes later I was beatin’ out into the bay 
in my dory. All around was the fog, thin as poor- 
house gruel so fur, but thickenin’ every minute. I was 
worried ; not for myself, you understand, but for that 
cowboy shover. I was afraid he wouldn’t fetch 
t’other side of the Cut-through. There wan’t much 
wind, and I had to make long tacks. I took the in- 
shore channel, and kept listenin’ all the time. And 
at last, when ’twas pretty dark and I was cal’latin’ to 
be about abreast of the bay end of the Cut-through, I 
heard from somewheres ashore a dismal honkin’ kind 
of noise, same as a wild goose might make if ’twas 
chokin’ to death and not resigned to the worst. 

" 'My land !’ says I. 'It’s happened !’ And I come 
about and headed straight in for the beach. I struck 
it just alongside the gov’ment shanty. The engineers 
had knocked off work for the week, waitin’ for sup- 
plies, but they hadn’t took away their dunnage. 

" ‘Hi !’ I yells, as I hauled up the dory. ‘Hi-i-i ! 
Billings, where be you ?’ 

"The honkin’ stopped and back comes the answer; 
there was joy in it. 

"'What? Is that Captain Stitt?’ 

" 'Yes,’ I sings out. 'Where be you?’ 

276 


THE HERO AND THE COWBOY 


“ 'I’m stuck out here in the middle of the crick. 
And there’s a flood on. Help me, can’t you?’ 

“Next minute I was aboard the dory, rowin’ her 
against the tide up the channel. Pretty quick I got 
where I could see him through the fog and dark. The 
auto was on the flat in the middle of the Cut-through 
and the water was hub high already. Billings was 
standin’ up on the for’ard thwart, makin’ wet foot- 
marks all over them expensive cushions. 

“ ‘Lord,’ says he, T sure am glad to see you, pard ! 
Can we get to land, do you think ?’ 

“ ‘Land ?’ says I, makin’ the dory fast alongside and 
hoppin’ out into the drink. ‘Course we can land! 
What’s the matter with your old derelict? Sprung a 
leak, has it ?’ 

“He went on to explain that the automobile had 
broke down when he struck the flat, and he couldn’t 
get no further. He’d been honkin’ and howlin’ for 
ten year at least, so he reckoned. 

“ ‘Why in time,’ says I, ‘didn’t you mind me and 
go up the ocean side? And why in nation didn’t you 
go ashore and — But never mind that now. Let me 
think. Here! You set where you be.’ 

“As I shoved off in the dory again he turned loose 
a distress signal. 

“ ‘Where you goin’ ?’ he yells. ‘Say, pard, you ain’t 
goin’ to leave me here, are you?’ 

“ ‘I’ll be back in a shake,’ says I, layin’ to my oars. 
‘Don’t holler so! You’ll have the life-savers down 
2 77 


THE BOY SCOUTS BOOK OF STORIES 


here, and then the joke’ll be on us. Hush, can’t you? 
I’ll be right back!’ 

Ill 

“I rowed up channel a little ways, and then I 
sighted the place I was bound for. Them gov’ment 
folks had another shanty further up the Cut-through. 
Moored out in front of it was a couple of big floats, 
for their stone-sloops to tie up to at high-water. The 
floats were made of empty kerosene-barrels and 
planks, and they’d have held up a house easy. I run 
alongside the fust one, cut the anchor-cable with my 
jack-knife, and next minute I was navigatin' that 
float down channel, steerin’ it with my oar and towin’ 
the dory astern. 

“ ’Twas no slouch of a job, pilotin’ that big float, 
but part by steerin’ and part by polin’ I managed to 
land her broadside on to the auto. I made her fast 
with the cable ends and went back after the other 
float. This one was a bigger job than the fust, but 
by and by that gas-wagon, with planks under her and 
cable lashin’s holdin’ her firm, was restin’ easy as a 
settin’ hen between them two floats. I unshipped my 
mast, fetched it aboard the nighest float, and spread 
the sail over the biggest part of the brasswork and up- 
holstery. 

“ 'There,’ says I, 'if it rains durin’ the night she’ll 
keep pretty dry. Now I’ll take the dory and row back 
to the shanty after some spare anchors there is there.’ 
278 


THE HERO AND THE COWBOY 


“‘But what’s it fur, pard?’ asks Billings for the 
nine hundred and ninety-ninth time. ‘Why don’t we 
go where it’s dry? The flood’s risin’ all the time.’ 

“ ‘Let it rise/ I says. ‘I cal’late when it gets high 
enough them floats’ll rise with it and lift the auto- 
mobile up too. If she’s anchored bow and stern she’ll 
hold, unless it comes on to blow a gale, and to-morrow 
momin’ at low tide maybe you can tinker her up so 
she’ll go/ 

“ ‘Go ?’ says he, like he was astonished. ‘Do you 
mean to say you’re reckonin’ to save the carV 

“ ‘Good land !’ I says, starin’ at him. ‘What else 
d’you s’pose ? Think I’d let seventy-five hundred dol- 
lars’ wuth of gilt-edged extravagance go to the bot- 
tom? What did you cal’late I was tryin’ to save — 
the clam-flat? Give me that dory-rope; I’m goin’ 
after them anchors. Sufferin’ snakes ! Where is the 
dory? What have you done with it?’ 

“He’d been holdin’ the bight of the dory-rodin\ I 
handed it to him so’s he’d have somethin’ to take up 
his mind. And, by time, he’d forgot all about it and 
let it drop! And the dory had gone adrift and was 
out of sight. 

“ ‘Gosh !’ says he, astonished-like. ‘Pard, the son of 
a gun has slipped his halter !’ 

“I was pretty mad — dories don’t grow on every 
beach-plum bush — but there wan’t nothin’ to say that 
fitted the case, so I didn’t try. 

“ ‘Humph !’ says I. ‘Well, I’ll have to swim ashore, 
279 


THE BOY SCOUTS BOOK OF STORIES 


that's all, and go up to the station inlet after another 
boat. You stand by the ship. If she gets afloat afore 
I come back you honk and holler and I’ll row after 
you. I’ll fetch the anchors and we’ll moor her 
wherever she happens to be. If she shouldn’t float 
on an even keel, or goes to capsize, you jump over- 
board and swim ashore. I’ll ’ 

“ ‘Swim?’ says he, with a shake in his voice. ‘Why, 
pard, I can’t swim!’ 

“I turned and looked at him. Shover of a two- 
mile-a-minute gold-plated butcher-cart like that, a cow- 
boy murderer that et his friends for breakfast — and 
couldn’t swim ! I fetched a kind of combination 
groan and sigh, turned back the sail, climbed aboard 
the automobile, and lit up my pipe. 

“ ‘What are you settin’ there for ?’ says he. ‘What 
are you goin’ to do ?’ 

“ ‘Do?’ says I. ‘Wait, that’s all — wait and smoke. 
We won’t have to wait long.’ 

“My prophesyin’ was good. We didn’t have to 
wait very long. It was pitch dark, foggy as ever, 
and the tide a risin’ fast. The floats got to be awash. 
I shinned out on to ’em picked up the oar that had been 
left there, and took my seat again. Billings climbed 
in too, only — and it kind of shows the change sence 
the previous evenin’ — he was in the passenger-cock- 
pit astern and I was for’ard in the pilot house. For a 
reckless dare-devil he was actin’ mighty fidgety. 

“And at last one of the floats swung off the sand. 

280 


THE HERO AND THE COWBOY 

The automobile tipped scandalous. It looked as if 
we was goin’ on our beam-ends. Billings let out an 
awful yell. Then t’other float bobbed up and the 
whole shebang, car and all, drifted out and down the 
channel. 

“My lashin’s held — I cal’lated they would. Soon’s 
I was sure of that I grabbed up the oar and shoved it 
over the stern between the floats. I hoped I could 
round her to after we passed the mouth of the Cut- 
through, and make port on the inside beach. But not 
in that tide. Inside of five minutes I see ’twas no 
use ; we was bound across the bay. 

“And now commenced a v’yage that beat any ever 
took sence Noah’s time, I cal’ late; and even Noah 
never went to sea in an automobile, though the one 
animal I had along was as much trouble as his whole 
menagerie. Billings was howlin’ blue murder. 

“ ‘Stop that bellerin’ !’ I ordered. 'Quit it, d’you 
hear! You’ll have the station crew out after us, and 
they’ll guy me till I can’t rest. Shut up! If you 
don’t, I’ll — I’ll swim ashore and leave you.’ 

“I was takin’ big chances, as I look at it now. He 
might have drawed a bowie-knife or a lasso on me; 
’cordin’ to his yarns he’d butchered folks for a good 
sight less’n that. But he kept quiet this time, only 
gurglin’ some when the ark tilted. I had time to 
think of another idee. You remember the dory-sail, 
mast and all, was alongside that cart. I clewed up 
the canvas well as I could and managed to lash the 
281 


THE BOY SCOUTS BOOK OF STORIES 

mast up straight over the auto’s bows. Then I shook 
out the sail. 

" 'Here !’ says I, turnin’ to Billings. 'You hang on 
to that sheet. No, you needn’t nuther. Make it fast 
to that cleat alongside.’ 

"I couldn’t see his face plain, but his voice had a 
funny tremble to it; reminded me of my own when I 
climbed out of that very cart after he’d jounced me 
down to Setuckit, the day before. 

" 'What ?’ he says. 'Wh-what ? What sheet ? I 
don’t see any sheet. What do you want me to do?’ 

"‘Tie this line to that cleat. That cleat there! 
Cleat , you lubber! Cleat! That knob! Make it 
fast! Oh, my gosh t’mighty! Get out of my way!’ 

"The critter had tied the sheet to the handle of the 
door instead of the one I meant, and the pull of the 
sail hauled the door open and pretty nigh ripped it off 
the hinges. I had to climb into the tockpit and 
straighten out the mess. I was losin’ my temper ; I do 
hate bunglin’ seamanship aboard a craft of mine. 

"'But what’ll become of us?’ begs Billings. 'Will 
we drown?’ 

"What in tunket do we want to drown for? Ain’t 
we got a good sailin’ breeze and/ the whole bay to 
stay on top of — fifty foot of water and more ?’ 

" 'Fifty foot !’ he yells. 'Is there fifty foot of water 
underneath us now? Pard, you don’t mean it!’ 

" 'Course I mean it. Good thing, too !’ 

282 


THE HERO AND THE COWBOY 

“ ‘But fifty foot ! It’s enough to drown in ten 
times over !' 

“ ‘Can't drown but once, can you? And I’d just 
as soon drown in fifty foot as four — ruther, 'cause 
'twouldn't take so long.' 

“He didn’t answer out loud ; but I heard him talkin' 
to himself pretty constant. 

IV 

“We was well out in the bay by now, and the seas 
was a little mite more rugged — nothin’ to hurt, you 
understand, but the floats was all foam, and once in 
a while we'd ship a little spray. And every time 
that happened Billings would jump and grab for 
somethin' solid — sometimes 'twas the upholstery and 
sometimes 'twas me. He wan’t on the thwart, but 
down in a heap on the cockpit floor. 

“ ‘Let go of my leg!’ I sings out, after we'd hit a 
high wave and that shover had made a more’n ordi- 
nary savage claw at my underpinnin'. ‘You make me 
nervous. Drat this everlastin' fog! Somethin' '11 
bump into us if we don’t look out. Here, you go 
for’ard and light them cruisin’-lights. They ain’t 
colored 'cordin' to regulations, but they'll have to do. 
Go for'ard! What you waitin' for?' 

“Well, it turned out that he didn't like to leave that 
cockpit. I was mad. 

“ ‘Go for'ard there and light them lights !' I yelled, 
283 


THE BOY SCOUTS BOOK OF STORIES 

hangin’ to the steerin’ oar and keepin’ the ark runnin’ 
afore the wind. 

“ ‘I won’t !’ he says, loud and emphatic. ‘Think 
I’m a blame fool? I sure would be a jack-rabbit to 
climb over them seats the way they’re buckin’ and 
light them lamps. You’re talkin’ through your hat!’ 

“Well, I hadn’t no business to do it, but, you see, 
I was on salt water, and skipper, as you might say, 
of the junk we was afloat in; and if there’s one thing 
I never would stand it’s mutiny. I hauled in the oar, 
jumped over the cockpit-rail, and went for him. He 
see me cornin’, stood up, tried to get out of the way, 
and fell overboard backwards. Part of him lit on one 
of the floats, but the biggest part trailed in the water 
between the two. He clawed with his hands, but the 
planks was slippery, and he slid astern fast. Just 
as he reached the last plank and slid off and under I 
jumped after him and got him by the scruff of the 
neck. I had hold of the lashin’-end with one hand 
and we tailed out behind the ark, which was sloppin’ 
along, graceful as an elephant on skates. 

“I was pretty well beat out when I yanked him into 
that cockpit again. Neither of us said anything for 
a spell, breath bein’ 6curce as di’monds. But when 
he’d collected some of his, he spoke. 

“ Tard,’ he says, puffin’, ‘I’m much obleeged to 
you. I reckon I sure ain’t treated you right. If it 

hadn’t been for you that time I’d ’ 

284 


[THE HERO AND THE COWBOY 

“But I was bilin’ over. I whirled on him like a 
teetotum. 

“ ‘Drat your hide !’ I says. ‘When you speak to 
your officer you say sir! And now you go for’ard 
and light them lights. Don’t you answer back! If 
you do I’ll fix you so’s you’ll never ship aboard an- 
other vessel! For’ard there! Lively, you lubber, 
lively !’ 

“He went for’ard, takin’ consider’ble time and 
hangin’ on for dear life. But somehow or ’nuther he 
got the lights to goin’; and all the time I hazed him 
terrible. I was mate on an Australian packet afore 
I went fishin’ to the Banks, and I can haze some. I 
blackguarded that shover awful. 

“ ‘Ripperty-rip your everlastin’ blankerty-blanked 
dough-head!’ I roared at him. ‘You ain’t wuth the 
weight to sink you. For’ard there and get that fog- 
horn to goin’! And keep it goin’! Lively, you 
sculpin! Don’t you open your mouth to me!’ 

“Well, all night we sloshed along, straight acrost 
the bay. We must have been a curious sight to look 
at. The floats was awash, so that the automobile 
looked like she was ridin’ the waves all by her lone- 
some; the lamps was blazin’ at either side of the bow; 
Billings was a tootin’ the rubber fog-horn as if he 
was wound up; and I was standin’ on the cushions 
amidships, keepin’ the whole calabash afore the wind. 

“We never met another craft the whole night 
through. Yes, we did meet one. Old Ezra Cahoon, 
285 


THE BOY SCOUTS BOOK OF STORIES 


of Harnis, was out in his dory stealin’ quahaugs from 
Seth Andrews’s bed over nigh the Wapatomac shore. 
Ezra stayed long enough to get one good glimpse of us 
as we bust through the fog ; then he cut his rodin’ and 
laid to his oars, bound for home and mother. We 
could hear him screech for half an hour after he 
left us. 

“Ez told next day that the devil had come ridin’ 
acrost the bay after him in a chariot of fire. Said 
he could smell the brimstone and hear the trumpet 
callin’ him to judgment. Likewise he hove in a lot of 
particulars concernin’ the personal appearance of the 
Old Boy himself, who, he said, was standin’ up wavin’ 
a redhot pitchfork. Some folks might have been 
flattered at bein’ took for such a famous character; 
but I wan’t; I’m retirin’ by nature, and, besides, Ez’s 
description wan’t cal’lated to bust a body’s vanity- 
biler. I was prouder of the consequences, the same 
bein’ that Ezra signed the Good Templars’ pledge 
that afternoon, and kept it for three whole months, 
just sixty-nine days longer than any previous attack 
within the memory of man had lasted. 

“And finally, just as mornin’ was breakin,’ the bows 
of the floats slid easy and slick up on a hard, sandy 
beach. Then the sun riz and the fog lifted, and 
there we was within sight of the South Ostable 
meetin’-house. We’d sailed eighteen miles in that 
ark and made a better landin’ blindfold than we ever 
could have made on purpose. 

286 


THE HERO AND THE COWBOY 


“I hauled down the sail, unshipped the mast, and 
jumped ashore to find a rock big enough to use for a 
makeshift anchor. It wan’t more’n three minutes 
after we fust struck afore my boots hit dry ground, 
but Billings beat me one hundred and seventy seconds, 
at that. When I had time to look at that shover 
man he was a cable’s-length from high-tide mark, 
settin’ down and grippin’ a bunch of beach-grass as 
if he was afeard the sand was goin’ to slide from under 
him ; and you never seen a yallerer, more upset critter 
in your born days. 

“Well, I got the ark anchored, after a fashion, and 
then we walked up to the South Ostable tavern. Sim 
Small, who runs the place, he knows me, so he let 
me have a room and I turned in for a nap. I slept 
about three hours. When I woke up I started out to 
hunt the automobile and Billings. Both of ’em looked 
consider’ble better than they had when I see ’em last. 
The shover had got a gang of men and they’d got the 
gas-cart ashore, and Billings and a blacksmith was 
workin’ over — or rather under — the clockwork. 

“ ‘Hello!’ I hails, cornin’ alongside. 

“Billings sticks his head out from under the tin- 
ware. 

“ ‘Hi, pard !’ says he. I noticed he hadn’t called 
me ‘Grace’ nor ‘Dewey’ for a long spell. ‘Hi, pard,’ 
he says, gettin’ to his feet, ‘the old gal ain’t hurt a 
hair. She’ll be good as ever in a couple of hours. 
Then you and me can start for Orham.’ 

287 


THE BOY SCOUTS BOOK OF STORIES 


“‘In her?’ says I. 

“ ‘Sure/ he says. 

“‘Not by a jugful!’ says I, emphatic. ‘I’ll borrer 
a boat to get to Orham in, when I’m ready to go. 
You won’t ketch me in that man-killer again; and 
you can call me a coward all you want to !’ 

“‘A coward?’ says he. ‘You a coward? And — 
Why, you was in that car all night!’ 

“ ‘Oh !’ I says. ‘Last night was diff ’rent. The 
thing was on the water then, and when I’ve got enough 
water underneath me I know I’m safe.’ 

“‘Safe!’ he sings out. ‘Safe! Well, by — gosh! 
Pard, I hate to say it, but it’s the Lord’s truth — you 
had me doin’ my “Now I lay me’s !” ’ 

“For a minute we looked at each other. Then says 
I, sort of thinkin’ out loud, ‘I cal’late,’ I says, ‘that 
whether a man’s brave or not depends consider’ble on 
whether he’s used to his latitude. It’s all accordin’. 
It lays in the bringin’ up, as the duck said when the 
hen tried to swim.’ 

“He nodded solemn. ‘Pard,’ says he, ‘I sure reckon 
you’ve called the turn. Let’s shake hands on it .’ 99 



XIV.— The Dollar* 

'Ey Morgan Robertson 

H IS name was Angus Macpherson — pronounced 
MacPhafrson — but he was so intensely 
Scotch that in every ship he had sailed in 
men called him Scotty. He had a face like a harvest- 
moon, with a sorrowful expression of the eyes, a 
frame like a gladiator's, a brogue modified from its 
original consistency to an understandable dialect, and 
the soul of a Scotchman — which means that he was 
possessed by two dominant and conflicting passions, 
love of God and love of Mammon. Add to these at- 
tributes a masterful knowledge of seamanship and an 
acquaintance with navigation, and you have a rough 
sketch of him as he stood at the wheel of a tow-barge 
just out of New York. 

* Reprinted by special permission from “Land Ho.” Copy- 
right, 1890, by Harper and Brothers. 

289 


THE BOY SCOUTS BOOK OF STORIES 


Her name was the Anita , and she was the second 
barge in a tow of two. Ahead of her, at the end of 
a ninety-fathom steel tow-line, was the sister barge 
Champion, and at an equal distance farther ahead was 
the steamer Proserpine. Each barge carried stump 
spars and mutton-leg canvas — which was why Scotty, 
weary of the endless work in the deep-water wind- 
jammers, had gone “tow-barging” — and the three 
craft belonged to one owner. 

The skipper, a young man with a humorous face 
and democratic manner, as became a lowly barge 
skipper, appeared before the Scotsman, jingling in 
his hand a number of bright silver dollars. Scotty 
eyed them hungrily. 

“Fine, aren’t they, Scotty?” he said. “How many 
of these plunkers does the devil need to buy your 
soul ?” 

“More than you can count, Cappen Bolt,” an- 
swered Scotty, gravely. “My soul no belongs to me, 
but to my Maker.” 

“Nonsense,” laughed the captain. “A Scot loves 
the siller first, his Maker next. Why, a Jew can’t 
make a living in your country, Scotty.” 

“Possibly not, cappen; but it’s no because Scotch- 
men are dishonest. The Lord has given us wits — 
that’s all.” 

“Dead broke, Scotty?” asked Captain Bolt, idly. 

“I banked the most o’ my pay, sir. Ay, I’m what 
you might call broke.” 


290 


THE DOLLAR 


‘Too bad! Ought to have held some out. 
There’ll be no money at Philadelphia. Owner’s 
kickin’. Wants to save the interest, and he won’t 
pay off till we get back.” 

Scotty*s face assumed a rueful expression, and 
Captain Bolt watched it from the tail of his eye; then, 
before Scotty could speak, the prolonged clatter of the 
steward’s dinner-bell began, and the captain moved 
towards the companion, pocketing the coins as he 
went. One fell on the deck, the noise of the bell 
preventing its fall being heard, and the captain did 
not see it. But Scotty did, and he watched it roll 
back towards the taffrail, assume a spiral motion, and 
lie down just aft of the quarter-bitt. The captain 
was now down in the cabin, but Scotty picked up the 
coin to hold for him until he came up. He should 
have let it lie. 

For it was bright and beautiful to look at, hard 
and slippery to the touch as he held it in his trousers 
pocket, a pleasing contrast to the coming emptiness 
of that pocket in Philadelphia. Scotty’s soul went 
through the usual conflict in such cases, and when 
Captain Bolt came up, rubbing his mouth, love of 
Mammon had won over love of God, and he said noth- 
ing about it. Shortly after, he was relieved, and he 
went forward. On the way a revulsion set in, and 
he turned back, resolved to hand it over, as though 
he had forgotten; but the captain had stepped below 
again, and with the memory of his boasted honesty 
291 


THE BOY SCOUTS BOOK OF STORIES 


and the certainty of the captain's skepticism and ridi- 
cule in his mind, he turned again and went to the fore- 
castle. When he had eaten his dinner, and slept four 
hours, he found on waking that his inclination to re- 
turn it was stronger than at noon; but the certainty 
of being disbelieved had gained equally in strength, 
and the dollar remained in his pocket — a source of 
guilty joy and expectant misgiving. He longed for 
the day when it would be spent and off his mind, and 
calculated the days and hours before the tow would 
reach Philadelphia. 

But Scotty did not reach Philadelphia ; he fell over- 
board just within the Delaware capes and though he 
bawled lustily as the black side of the barge slipped 
by him in the darkness, and was answered in kind 
by his watchmates above, the noise did not reach the 
relentless power eleven hundred feet away, and he 
was left behind. But one had thrown him a life- 
buoy, and on this he floated until daylight, when an 
outbound tug picked him up. The tug was bound to 
Boston. 

“Pll e’en make the best o’ it,” said Scotty, as he 
wrung out his wet clothing in the tug’s small fore- 
castle. “And I’ll regard the dollar as a special dees- 
pensation of an all- wise Providence; for what would 
I do in Boston wi’oot a bit o’ money in my clothes?” 

But he did not reach Boston. The tug had a full 
crew, scant accommodations, and a hard-hearted cap- 
tain, who decreed that Scotty should be put aboard 
292 


THE DOLLAR 


the first craft that would take him. This happened 
to be a three-skysail-yard American ship — the Bal- 
timore — two days out from New York for Shanghai, 
whose skipper backed his yard in answer to the tug- 
captain’s offer to give him a sailor, and whose third- 
mate received Scotty — not with open arms, but 
clinched fists, as he dropped, swearing, to the deck in 
a bosun’s chair. 

“You ought to be glad you’re alive,” said her skip- 
per, harshly, when Scotty had, later, come aft to pro- 
test against his abduction. “He pulled you out of a 
life-buoy, where you’d ha’ drowned ’fore the next 
craft came along, and puts you aboard a big, safe ship 
where you couldn’t fall overboard if you tried. Get 
forward, now, and stop this talk.” 

“And am I to be put on the articles?” demanded 
Scotty. “I expect to wark where’er I be; but do I 
get pay, I’m askin’?” 

“No. My articles are full. You’ll wark your pas- 
sage.” 

“Four months’ sleevery in a hell-ship,” growled 
Scotty, as he went forward. “This comes o’ back- 
sleedin’. Lord forgi’ me for it, but the punishment 
is hard. Howe’er, I’ll just hang on to the dollar. I’ll 
ha’ earned it long this side o’ the cape.” 

He did, and continued to earn it until the ship had 
neared the Yangtse-Kiang. Marked for the officers’ 
attentions by his initial profane and irreverent com- 
ment on his transferral by the tug-captain, he was as- 
293 


THE BOY SCOUTS BOOK OF STORIES 


saulted on the slightest provocation by the mates — 
no bigger than he or more skillful of fist, but justified 
by the law — and, though easily the best sailorman of 
the mixed crew, was put at distasteful tasks while 
inferior men worked at sailorly work on ropes and 
rigging. 

There was nothing of this in the watch below, for 
Scotty could thrash the best two men forward, and 
led them all in forecastle discourse; but as it was a 
mixed crew, none too honest, in his opinion, he made 
a monk-bag — a leather pocket — for his dollar, and 
hung it around his neck; and, to further protect the 
precious coin, forswore his religion, called himself 
a Catholic and the monk-bag a phylactery, with a 
saint’s relic within. This brought him to the notice 
of a gentle-souled Portuguese of the crew, a true be- 
liever, who made friends with the Scot and earned 
his confidence before he learned of the shamness of 
the phylactery. Scotty, on lookout one night, told 
him this in a burst of confidence that also included a 
confession of his peculation. His friend, horrified, 
not at the theft, but at the sacrilegious fraud, in- 
formed him that the coin was accursed, that his soul 
was accursed, and that the only salvation for him in 
this life and the next was, first, that he return the 
stolen dollar by hand to its rightful owner, next that 
he become a real believer in the only true church in- 
stead of an impostor. 


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THE DOLLAR 


“If you do not,” he said, “you have alia time badda 
luck till you die, then purgatory and the flame.” 

Perhaps the flames of Sheol could not have turned 
Scotty from his faith; but he was certainly impressed 
with the first clause of the obligation. 

“Ye maun be right, Manuel,” he said; “for, though 
I thought it a deespensation, I find that all my hard 
luck came after it. I’ll gie it back when I may.” 

“Who’s on lookout here?” demanded the burly third 
mate as he climbed the forecastle steps. “Hey, who’s 
on lookout?” 

“I am, sir,” answered Scotty, as Manuel drew out 
of the way. 

“Get down on the main-deck, you dago son of a 
thief,” bellowed the officer, aiming a kick at the re- 
treating Portuguese. “D’ ye see that light?” he said 
to Scotty. “With a man to help you keep lookout, 
d’ ye see it?” 

Scotty, derelict in his duty, did not see it for some 
moments — in fact, not until the third mate was through 
with him. Then he looked through closing eyes to 
where the third mate pointed — dead ahead, where a 
white light shone faintly in the darkness. 

“Ay, ay, sir,” he said, thickly. “I see it; and I’ll 
e’en remember this night when I meet ye on shore, 
Mr. Smart. I’m no shipped in the craft, and it’s a 
matter for the underwriters to know — puttin’ me on 
lookout. As it is, I doot I’d meet trouble should I 
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THE BOY SCOUTS BOOK OF STORIES 


pull yer head off the noo. I’m no a shipped man, 
d’ ye hear?” 

The last was like the roar of an angry bull, and the 
officer backed away from the enraged Scotchman. 
Then he descended the steps, and in a minute a man 
came up and relieved him. 

The light did not move, and, the wind being gen- 
tle, the day broke before the ship had come up to it. 
Then they saw a black tramp steamer, rolling easily 
in the trough, with a string of small flags flying from 
aloft and the English ensign from the flag-staff at the 
taffrail. There was an exchange of signals between 
the two crafts until eight bells struck, and then Scotty, 
just about to sit down to his breakfast, was called aft 
and told to get his belongings ready for another trans- 
shipment. Scotty’s belongings, the few rags he had 
collected by various methods from his shipmates, were 
hardly worth taking; but he regretted his breakfast, 
though glad to quit the ship. As he slid down the 
davit-tackle he surmised the meaning of the change 
by the expression on the third mate’s face as he peered 
over the rail, and some words uttered by the captain, 
among which he only made out one — “underwriters.” 

“I’m told,” said the semi-uniformed captain of the 
tramp, “that you are a castaway, picked up on the 
American coast, and are discontented with the ship.” 

“I dinna ken what the sleeve-drivers telt ye, cap- 
pen/’ answered Scotty, his brogue a little thicker from 
his emotions, “but I agree that I’m discontented.” 

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THE DOLLAR 


“ What’s wrong with your face?” 

“Ran foul o' the third mate’s fist for no seein’ your 
light. I were no one o’ the crew, yet they put me 
on lookout. And I strongly suspect, cappen, that I’m 
bundled off mair on account o’ that than because of 
my discontent.” 

“Possibly; but I’m a man short, and will sign you 
at Shanghai wages — three pounds a month. You will 
not be struck here, and will be well treated while you 
do your work. We’re bound for Boston, and will go 
on when the engine is mended.” 

“I’m obleeged to ye, sir,” said Scotty, radiantly. 
“And Boston’s the port for me, sir. I’ve strong rea- 
sons for strikin’ that coast.” 

He still had his dollar secure in its leather casing, 
hung to his neck, but in this ship he said nothing 
about it. 

Nothing unpleasant happened to him on this pas- 
sage homeward; and he fondly believed that his sin- 
cere intent to return the dollar to Captain Bolt had 
changed his luck — that his painful friction with Mr. 
Smart’s fist was a providential happening; but Provi- 
dence had ordered otherwise, and in this manner : The 
steamer captain, ahead of his reckoning while ap- 
proaching the coast in thick fog, ran his ship at full 
speed onto the sands of Cape Cod. He was unable to 
back off; a rising wind and sea threw the steamer 
broadside to the beach, and here she churned a hole 
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THE BOY SCOUTS BOOK OF STORIES 

for herself from which a wrecking tug could hardly 
pull her. 

But a wrecking tug was sent for, by signals to the 
shore when the fog lifted, and in time one arrived, 
with a lifeboat in tow — which was a lucky forethought 
of some one, for the rising wind and sea had devel- 
oped into a storm that was breaking the ship in pieces. 
Anchored well out, and steaming with full power into 
the teeth of the gale, the tug slacked down the life- 
boat, and one by one the crew sprang into the sea and 
was pulled in. Six trips in and out completed the 
rescue, and Scotty came out on the last, with the fran- 
tic captain, who never ceased his bitter self-reproach. 

But Scotty, irresponsible, had troubles of his own; 
he was wet and cold — for it was midwinter — and once 
aboard the wrecking tug, he fled the captain’s inward 
objurgations, and sought the warmth of the firehold. 
Here he burrowed far along beside the boilers, and 
being utterly exhausted as well as chilled and drenched, 
and far from the captain’s voice, fell into a sleep 
which lasted until the tug had tied up at Boston ; then 
he came out, to find his shipmates gone ashore. 

“Are you the missing man o’ that crew?” asked the 
mate of the tug. “Your skipper says to stay here, and 
he’ll bring you your pay.” 

“That’s gude,” answered Scotty, cheerfully. “But 
I’ll just stretch my legs on the dock a wee bit, for it’s 
a long time since I’ve been ashore.” 

The tug was moored outside of a small schooner, 
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whose crew, as he crossed her deck, were “loosing” 
sails, singling lines and making other obvious prepara- 
tions to getting away. As he mounted her rail to 
climb to the dock, he saw his captain looking sadly 
down on him. 

“It’s just as well, my man,” he said, “that you 
couldn’t be found; for I didn’t sign you before the 
consul, and want no complications. However, I’ll pay 
you here. Just sign this receipt — an even two months 
at three pounds a month.” 

“Ay, ay, sir — and thank you, cappen.” 

He reached up and secured the slip of paper and a 
pencil handed down; then, first examining the docu- 
ment with Scottish caution, knelt down and signed his 
name to a receipt for six pounds. Passing it up, he 
received a cylindrical roll of coins from the captain, 
and thanked him again. Then he turned to drop to 
the deck; but his foot slipping on the hard, painted 
rail, he came down on all fours, and the roll of coin 
left his grasp. 

“Catch it — quick!” called the captain from above. 
“Look out for that scupper; it’s rolling right into it.” 

Scotty made a frantic scramble towards his treas- 
ure, and just missed closing his fingers on it before it 
rolled into the scupper; then he heard the tinkling 
sound as it struck the water over the side. 

“Domnation!” he roared, as he rose to his feet. 
“Twa months’ pay gone to the de’il, and I never e’en 
laid eyes on it.” 


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THE BOY SCOUTS BOOK OF STORIES 

“I’m very sorry, my man,” said the captain. “There 
were six gold sovereigns, and I have your receipt. I 
can’t pay you again.” 

“Na, na, cappen,” answered Scotty, as sadly as the 
captain. “ ’Tis na fault o’ yourn, nor mine; it’s my 
luck, and it’ll ne’er change till I git to New York and 
find my old skipper. I’m under a curse, I am.” 

But the captain had gone. 

“Want to get to New York?” asked a voice be- 
hind him. 

“That I do,” said Scotty, shortly, as he faced the 
speaker. It was the captain of the schooner. 

“I’m a man short,” he said. “Where’s your clo’s ?” 

“On my back, cappen. I lost twa months’ pay the 
noo, and can’t repleenish my wardrobe.” 

“It’s fine weather, and you won’t need any. I pay 
twenty a month. Turn to.” 

Scotty went to New York in this schooner — that 
is, he went as far as the Sandy Hook Lightship, where 
the skipper, a man of poor judgment, mistakingly put 
about under the bow of an outward-bound steamer, 
which had slowed down to discharge her pilot, and 
which went ahead too soon for the welfare of that 
schooner. The impact was not dead on — it was a 
glancing blow that the schooner received, and it only 
carried away the weather main rigging and the davit 
on the stern. But Scotty was at work in this weather 
main rigging, and foreseeing disaster to the frail 
spider web to which he clung, he leaped for the big 
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THE DOLLAR 


stockless anchor of the steamer just before it caught 
the shrouds. On this he sat perched, while wire rope 
snapped over and around him, and as the steamer 
forged ahead, managed to make himself heard over 
the shouts and curses with which the two skippers paid 
their parting compliments. He was lifted up and 
taken to the captain — a man black in the face from 
rage and overstrained vocabulary. 

The captain greeted Scotty with inarticulate snorts. 

“And can ye put me on some craft bound in, cap- 
pen ?” asked Scotty, anxiously. 

“Na-ow,” roared the irate man. “Put you ’board 
nothing. Nor will I put you on the articles, curse 
you. I’ll put you to work, and if you don’t work 
your hands off, I’ll charge you for your passage to 
Melbourne. Get out o’ this.” 

“I tell ye,” roared Scotty, in return, equally en- 
raged at the prospect of another trip to the antipodes, 
“if ye don’t get rid of me, ye’ll no reach Melbourne. 
I’m a Jonah — a Jonah from the curse that has come 
to me. Put me ashore, ye poor, unfortunate fule.” 

Scotty was led away — after the gentle manner of 
the sea — and, in spite of his loud protestations that he 
was a competent able seaman, placed at the degrading 
labor of coal passing. When the cooler atmosphere 
of the stoke-hole had lowered his temperature some- 
what, he again went to the captain and earnestly told 
his story — of his theft, his bad luck and the bad luck 
he had brought to others. 

3 01 


THE BOY SCOUTS BOOK OF STORIES 


“The curse is a-warkin’ and a-growin’ on me, cap- 
pen,” he concluded, sorrowfully. “I’m the line-e-al 
desceendent o’ the Flyin’ Dutchman, sir. And I’ll 
wrack your ship wi’oot meanin’ to.” 

“I’ve read the Bible,” said the captain, calmly. “I 
know what to do with Jonahs. I always throw them 
overboard.” 

Scotty shoveled and wheeled coal for three months, 
then his prediction was fulfilled. Within a day’s run 
to Melbourne, the screw slipped off the tail-shaft, and 
as it went to the bottom of the Indian Ocean, the rac- 
ing engine went to pieces. This might not have pre- 
vented the steamer’s reaching port under sail or tow, 
but the forward crank-pin broke, and the piston drove 
up with nothing to stop it, fetched up with a mighty 
jolt against the cylinder head — which held — and dis- 
connected most of the bolts which bound the cylinder 
to its bed. 

As the steamer fell off in the hollow of the sea, she 
rolled, and at the third roll the half-ton of metal top- 
pled over, crashed down through the bottom of the 
ship, and sought the company of the screw. She was 
a compartmentless steamer, and in half an hour had 
followed, leaving her crew afloat in boats and on life- 
rafts. Scotty found himself in the boat with the cap- 
tain, and wisely anticipating rebuke, had brought his 
shovel. The captain glared unspeakable things at him. 

“It’ll do ye no good the noo, cappen,” said Scotty, 
anticipating the captain’s outburst. “And if you, or 
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a man o’ your crew, lay the weight o’ your finger upon 
me, I’ll brain ye wi’ my staff of office” — he elevated 
the shovel. “I warned ye in time; ye should ha’ 
heeded me.” 

“Put down your shovel, and take an oar,” com- 
manded the captain. “I’d shoot you dead if it wasn’t 
for the law. But you’ll get out o’ this boat, onto the 
first craft we meet — bound in or bound out.” 

“It’ll be bound out, cappen,” said Scotty, gravely. 
“Ha’ no fear o’ that.” 

It was an Italian bark, and as Scotty had predicted, 
she was bound out — to Rio Janeiro, as Scotty learned 
later. When the flotilla of boats swarmed into her 
path, she backed her main yards with much chatter- 
ing and yelling of her crew, and Scotty’s boat ap- 
proached her side, where a Jacob’s-ladder hung in- 
vitingly. 

“Get up there, you miserable Sawnee,” said the skip- 
per. “I wouldn’t put you aboard a white man’s ves- 
sel, for you’ll wreck her as you did mine.” 

It is very impolite, and sometimes inexpedient, to 
call a Scot a Sawnee. 

Scotty climbed the ladder with his shovel, and when 
he stood upon the rail, turned and let it fly towards 
the captain in the stern-sheets. Had it struck edge 
first it would have cut him in two ; as it happened, the 
handle merely flattened his nose. The captain sank 
down, then, rising, fired a revolver at Scotty, but 
missed, and forthwith ordered his men to give way. 
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THE BOY SCOUTS BOOK OF STORIES 


And then, amid the excited cries and orders of the 
Italian captain, Scotty was pulled down from the rail, 
mobbed around the deck a little — though he fought 
furiously — by the three mates of the bark, and bun- 
dled into a hatch-house. And long after he was 
locked in he could hear the excited and puzzled ac- 
cents of the Italian captain, calling to the misguided 
castaways, who would not be rescued; then he heard 
the yards braced, and knew that he was homeward 
bound. 

“If the bloody hooker don’t sink on the way,” he 
growled. “Howe’er, I’ll no revile the craft that car- 
ries me, for it’s lang odds she gits the warst o’ it.” 

Shipboard etiquette is international. Scotty, in 
throwing the shovel, had violated the strictest clause 
in the code, and the Italian captain, though under- 
standing nothing of the circumstances, had sensed the 
enormity of his offense, and punished him. But he 
was not confined long; the door was soon opened, and 
from the jabbering and gestures of the three mates he 
understood that he was to go forward. He went, and 
with a bucket of salt water and a piece of old canvas 
so improved his personal appearance as to partly over- 
rule the prejudice against him. 

Seamanship, like nautical etiquette, is international, 
and though he understood not one word of what was 
said to him, and though not a man aboard understood 
him, yet he knew what to do without orders, and 
soon proved himself superior to any of the officers. 
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THE DOLLAR 


The rather impulsive, but generous, captain noticed 
this, and made as much of him as was possible with- 
out a common means of communication; but Scotty 
ascribed it to the influence of the unblessed, but jeal- 
ously guarded, leather pendant often visible on his 
hairy chest. He made the most of this influence 
among the men forward, and even went to the blas- 
phemous extent of making the sign of the cross on 
occasions, and repeating certain words, picked up from 
his devout shipmates, of the Roman Catholic ritual. 
But when he prayed, alone and in the silence of the 
night, he prayed for forgiveness, for the removal of 
the curse, for opportunity to redeem himself — for the 
test of a ten-mile swim or a thousand-mile walk, to 
the end that he might place that stolen dollar in the 
hand of Captain Bolt. 

But his prayers availed not. He became a man 
without a country. The Italian bark caught fire in 
the South Atlantic, and in the confusion of abandon- 
ing the charred and sinking hulk, Scotty found him- 
self alone in a small quarter-boat, which, like him- 
self, had been left behind, and which he had lowered 
and unhooked unaided. But he had been unable to 
find the oars, and the other boats were far away; so 
he spent seven days and nights in the cockle-shell, 
freezing by night, roasting by day, with the horrors 
of hunger and thirst for company, and was then res- 
cued in a delirious state of mind by a Norwegian 
barkentine, bound for Cape Town. 

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THE BOY SCOUTS BOOK OF STORIES 

There is no need of recounting his further adven- 
tures in detail. He had now been a year without 
touching land, and he spent four more at sea before 
there came to him even a gleam of hope. No matter 
what the craft, or what the port bound for, something 
occurred to destroy the ship or prevent him finishing 
the passage. At times, when an alleged advance of 
pay was worked off, he drew clothing from the ship’s 
slop chest, and always left it behind when the curse 
closed down upon him and removed him from that 
ship. Once he was abandoned with a boy, third mate, 
and three others on a derelict which they had been 
sent to inspect, and from the neighborhood of which 
a furious gale drove their own vessel. They were 
rescued just before the derelict sank. Again, in 
Manila Bay, he swam to a near-by ship which he had 
heard was bound to New York, and secreted himself, 
only to find when at sea that she was bound for Liver- 
pool. He made the stormy passage of the Horn in 
midwinter with the clothing he stood in. 

Too eager to touch dry land at Liverpool, he quit 
the ship in a runner’s boat before docking, and the 
boat getting in the way of an outbound ocean-tug, 
he went to sea on the tug, and was again put aboard 
the first craft met, an English four-master, bound for 
Calcutta. And it was in this ship that there came 
to him the gleam of hope mentioned. In her fore- 
castle he found the quondam third mate of the big 
skysail-yarder, the Mr. Smart who, backed by the law, 
306 


THE DOLLAR 


had thrashed him on the forecastle deck and later ar- 
ranged his transfer to the tramp. 

Scotty had long since forgiven him, regarding him 
as but an instrument of the Lord. But the instru- 
ment, down on his luck and ’fore-the-mast in a “lime- 
juicer,” must needs refer to it, again and again, until 
the sorely tried man gave way. Then occurred one 
of the shortest and fiercest fights that ever delighted 
the souls of English sailors. Scotty did the fighting, 
and he struck out twice; but each blow was like the 
kick of a mule, and Smart was carried aft to have his 
broken ribs and jawbone reset, while Scotty went in 
irons for murderous assault; but the captain released 
him on learning that the war began in an American 
ship. There was no further trouble between these 
two, but Scotty drew comfort and hope from the in- 
cident because it seemed his first victory over the 
forces that opposed him. 

Cholera was rampant in Calcutta, and not a man 
but the skipper left the ship while there; then she 
sailed for New York, and Scotty’s hope increased. 
He carefully guarded the black and grimy talisman of 
evil thkt hung to his neck, and prayed fervently for 
the final test that would redeem him; and he prayed, 
too — for his great trouble had softened and spiritual- 
ized him — that this big ship and large company should 
not suffer disaster on his account. 

But as the ship reached soundings it seemed that 
the prayer was to be unanswered; for she came driv- 
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THE BOY SCOUTS BOOK OF STORIES 


ing up to the light-ship before a southerly gale and 
sea that prevented any sail holding but the foresail and 
three lower topsails. All lighter canvas was blown 
away — and lower topsails and a lee shore are a bad 
combination. 

The captain could not conceal his anxiety ; there had 
been no sign of a pilot, and though the holding ground 
was good, his anchors were small — too small for his 
big ship. To add to the danger, the spume and spin- 
drift from the combers were thickened by a mist that 
seemed to descend from above, blotting out the dis- 
tant light-ship. But this mist was ahead; astern, the 
horizon was visible, and far this side of the horizon — 
not half a mile on the port quarter — was a sight that 
sent the blood coursing through poor Scotty’s veins, 
and a prayer of thanksgiving to his lips. 

Coming along before the storm, but on a conver- 
gent course which would soon bring her in the big 
ship’s wake, was the steamer Proserpine towing her 
barges. Scotty knew them ; every detail was pictured 
on his brain. He knew that big funnel, and big nig- 
ger-head in the bow ; he knew the stump bowsprit of 
the Champion , with its one-chain bobstay; and he 
knew the Anita behind her, straight-stemmed, black 
and dingy. 

And as he looked there came to him the conviction 
that here was the test required of him — that if he, the 
Jonah of many ships, should remain where he was, 
there would be one more catastrophe on the list, while 
3°8 


THE DOLLAR 


some maneuvering of fate would again send him to 
sea; but that if he rid the ship of his presence, there 
was a chance, not only for the ship, but for himself. 

Mounting the forecastle deck — where he had a right 
to be — he watched and waited until the three crafts 
astern were as one in the wake; then, shedding his 
oilskins and boots, he sprang overboard. He heard 
the shouts of a shipmate, and as he came to the sur- 
face, saw men on the rail, looking and waving. He 
saw the second mate heave over a life-buoy, but it 
fell short, and he did not swim for it. The ship went 
on, for a square-rigged craft may not round to in a 
gale. 

Scotty swam shoreward at first, for he knew that 
the steamer and tow would make leeway. On the 
tops of the seas he took his bearings, and then swam, 
or paddled, according to the inclination of the steam- 
er's bow. In the hollows he swam towards her. 
Nearer and nearer she came, and at last he began 
hailing; but not a man could be seen on her deck, and 
the bridge was empty; the captain or mate on duty 
was in the warm pilot-house, no doubt — after the 
manner of tug-men. Hailing frantically, he met the 
wash of her bow wave and went under; when he came 
up she was past him, with her white-painted name 
staring at him. No one had seen or heard him. 

The Champion was coming, and he swam into her 
path, barely missing a clutch at the steel towline whiz- 
zing past him. He hailed her, but there was no re- 
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THE BOY SCOUTS BOOK OF STORIES 


sponse. How could they hear, in the teeth of that 
furious wind? Realizing this, he saved his breath. 

The barge, rolling along before the sea, was mak- 
ing good weather of it, yet she lifted and plunged 
heavily as the big billows passed beneath her — the 
chain bobstay often rising six feet out of water, and 
again sinking as far below. To catch this chain was 
all that he could hope for ; to miss it meant death ; for 
even should he be seen or heard as he passed astern, 
no power on earth could bring that tug back to wind- 
ward in such a sea. 

When but twenty feet away from him the bow 
lifted, dripping water from the hawse-pipes — and to 
the agonized man beneath it this bow and dripping 
hawse-pipes bore a harrowing resemblance to a large, 
implacable, yet weeping face, a face that expressed 
sorrow and condemnation — then it fell upon him, and 
the heavy iron chain struck his head, then glanced to 
his shoulder and bore him under. But the downward 
blow gave him his grip upon it; had it struck him 
while lifting, he might not have held. 

Clinging for dear life, unable to move himself an 
inch against the rush of water, with head swimming 
from the impact of the chain, and lungs bursting from 
lack of air, he waited for the rise, and when it came, 
moved upward a foot. Then he was borne under 
again, this time with his lungs full of air, and he suf- 
fered less; and when he was lifted out, he gained 
another foot. 

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Four times he was plunged under before he had 
climbed high enough to avoid it, and then he rested, 
until his head cleared and the awful pain of fatigue 
left his arms. When strength came back he mounted 
to the bowsprit, crept in to the topgallant forecastle, 
and sprang down on the main-deck, to the consterna- 
tion of two men at the weather fore-rigging. These 
were foremast hands, and Scotty had no present use 
for them. He ran past them in his stocking-feet — 
and they gave room to the wild-eyed apparition — and 
aft to the poop, where, besides the helmsman, was a 
man who might be captain or mate, but who could 
certainly inform him. 

“Is Cappen Bolt in charge o’ the Anita the noo?” 
he asked, hoarsely, as he halted before him. 

“Yes. Who are you?” asked the astounded man. 

“God be thankit !” exclaimed Scotty, and he mounted 
the taffrail — not for a swim this time, there was no 
need of it. Stretching back to the Anita was a steel 
trolley, which was all he wanted. Before the man 
could do more than yell at him, Scotty had hitched 
himself out on the towline beyond reach; then, for 
faster progress, he swung beneath it, head aft and 
downward, and in this position, hand over hand and 
leg over leg, he made his way along until the water 
took him. Filling his lungs with air and locking arms 
and legs around the rope, he let himself go; and he 
slid at the speed of the tug down the trolley and up 
3 11 


THE BOY SCOUTS BOOK OF STORIES 


again, traversing half of the length of the towline be- 
neath the surface. 

He was nearly dead and fully blind when he felt 
air on his face, and had only time to take a breath 
when a following sea immersed him again. But with 
another breath, he began to climb. 

Captain Bolt, aft on the poop, saw men on the 
Champion waving arms and pointing a megaphone his 
way. He could not hear, nor could he hope to from 
the bow, yet he ran forward. As he reached the fore- 
castle steps, an unkempt figure came in over the bow 
— a big, rawboned man in dripping rags, with blood 
streaming from arms and legs, with a red, round, and 
sorrowful face bordered by long, matted, gray hair 
— with the gleam of incipient insanity in the eyes. 
He sprang off the forecastle and faced the captain. 

“Cappen Bolt,” he stammered, as he tore at a small 
leather bag with fingers and teeth. “Cappen — cappen 
— here it is. I’ve fetched it t’ ye. I never spent it.” 
From the bag came a stained and oxidized coin, which 
he forced into the amazed captain’s hand. Then, sink- 
ing to his knees, he lifted his eyes to heaven, mut- 
tered a few inarticulate words, and fell over in a 
swoon. 

“Here!” called the captain, sharply, to two of his 
men who had drawn near. “Take him below and 
strip him. Put him to bed, and IT1 get some brandy. 
Lord knows who he is, or where he came from, but 
he’s in a bad way.” 


3 12 


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Scotty was carried down the forecastle stairs and 
cared for; but he did not waken to drink the cap- 
tain’s brandy; the swoon took on the form of child- 
like sleep, and the sleep continued until the barges had 
made port and moored to the dock. Here, amid the 
confusion of making fast, opening hatches, and rig- 
ging cargo gear, Captain Bolt had about forgotten 
the mysterious stranger in his forecastle, and was only 
reminded of him when the captain of the Champion 
came aboard to inquire. 

“He climbed up my bobstays, no doubt; he must 
have fallen overboard from that big Englishman that 
anchored in the Horseshoe. Went crazy in the water, 
I suppose. He went out on your towline like a mon- 
key. I wouldn’t ha’ believed a man could stand it. 
He was three minutes under water.” 

“I can’t make it out,” said Captain Bolt. “He put 
this in my hand” — he held out the blackened dollar 
— “and then went daffy. He’s down below now. No, 
here he comes.” 

Scotty had climbed to the deck. He stood near 
the hatch, looking about with a doubtful, bewildered 
air at the docks and shipping. Then his face cleared 
a little, and like a cat in a strange street he moved 
slowly and hesitatingly along the rail towards the fore 
rigging. Then with one bound he swung himself to 
the top of the rail, and a mighty upward jump landed 
him on the string-piece of the dock. Here he paused 
long enough to sink to his knees and elevate his clasped 
313 


THE BOY SCOUTS BOOK OF STORIES 


hands; then he rose, walked hurriedly, and, breaking 
into a run, disappeared from sight behind the crowd 
of horses and trucks on the dock. 

‘‘By the Lord,” exclaimed Captain Bolt, “I know 
him ! It's Scotty. I lost him overboard off the Dela- 
ware capes five years ago. How’d he get picked up, 
I wonder? Where’s he been? And this ” he pro- 

duced the dollar. “I wonder if — why, very likely — 
a Scotchman has a conscience. Say, cappen, this 
seems funny. I put up a job on Scotty. I pretended 
to lose a dollar to see if he’d keep it, and he did. And 
I’ll bet this is the one.” He opened his knife and cut 
into the dingy coin. “Yes, it was a counterfeit.” 



XV* — The Mascot of “Troop I” * 


By Stephen Chalmers 

HE troop was just about scared to death when 



the Scoutmaster announced at the close of 


the meeting that the visitor would remain for 


an informal talk with the boys. 

The visitor was a big man in more than height. He 
was a State Commissioner — the kind you spell with a 
big C — a Commissioner of Forests, or Weights, or 
something like that ; and he happened, too, to have an 
official position with Boy Scout Headquarters. He 
was, so to speak, a heap big Scout, and Troop i, Sara- 
nac Lake, which is away back in the Adirondacks, felt 
uneasy. 

“There aren’t many of you,” said the Commissioner 
to the group of Scouts gathered about him, “but 
you’re all good stuff. You have a chance most Boy 
Scouts don’t get. You were all born in the big North 

* Reprinted from ‘‘The Boy Scouts’ Year Book.” Copyright, 
1918, by D. Appleton and Company. 


315 


THE BOY SCOUTS BOOK OF STORIES 

Woods. You have inherited instincts that can’t be 
driven into a boy with teaching. You don’t have to 
be taught trailing, or woodcraft, except maybe for 
an organized way of handling them. You can open 
old trails as a good turn to the public. You can patrol 
the woods, report forest fires, and you can fight for- 
est fires, too, as I hear you have been doing. I hear, 
too, that the Municipal Board picked this troop to 
select a Christmas tree; that you felled that tree in a 
neat way and brought it to the village, helped set it 
up, and then patrolled the crowd with your staffs, 
so the little kids crowding around Santa Claus’s muni- 
cipal wagon wouldn’t get hurt in the crush.” 

This made the Scouts breathe a little easier. 

“But there is more than that to this Scout 
game ” 

The Scouts began to fidget again. They knew they 
were not going to be let down as easy as all that, 
especially by a big Scout like this who knew condi- 
tions all over the country. 

“The thing that comes easy for you to do is good. 
But, like bravery, the best form of it is doing what 
you are afraid to do, or doing what isn’t second nature 
for you to do. You belong to the second generation 
of the wilderness. There are towns now and you live 
in them, and it is in the towns ” 

The big man suddenly hesitated. He was looking 
at a small black face that emerged from a khaki collar 
between two first class Scouts in the front row. The 
316 


THE MASCOT OF “TROOP I” 

Commissioner pointed at him and said, abruptly, 
breaking off his remarks: 

“By the way, what’s your name?” 

The small black face went into strange contortions 
of embarrassment. It tried to hide like the ostrich, 
but the Scouts in front parted and revealed a little 
negro boy in Scout uniform with a tenderfoot badge 
pinned where it should be. 

“I’m Smokey,” said a faint voice. Then, remem- 
bering, he stiffened up, saluted the big man, and 
amplified : 

“Dey calls me Smokey, sir. Dat’s all de name I 
ever has. I’se just a li’l nigger, sir, but dey all’s a 
moughty good bunch and dey don’t mek no difference 
’cause I ain’t white.” 

There was a little applause and much grinning. The 
Commissioner of Forests, or Weights — I forget just 
what he was — stared in a queer way, then went on 
with his address from where he had left off. 

I remember he laid particular stress on the fact 
that doing one’s simple everyday duty was all right, 
but not just what was called a “Good Turn.” 

But all the time he was watching Smokey, who stood 
there drinking in every word and nudging his neigh- 
bor, a thin, pallid boy, who also wore a tenderfoot 
badge. 

“What’s your name?” the speaker broke off again 
to ask, pointing at Smokey’s neighbor. 

“I’m Jimmy,” said he. “Smokey’s me pal,” he 
317 


THE BOY SCOUTS BOOK OF STORIES 


added, scrambling to his feet with a belated salute. 
“We — we likes bein’ Scouts, sir.” 

Smokey wriggled in absolute approval of Jimmy’s 
loyalty and comment. 

Again the Commissioner looked puzzled. He went 
on with his talk, however, and when he had finished 
and the Scouts had left, he went into the Scoutmaster’s 
office to compare notes with him. But he dismissed 
the notes pretty swiftly and suddenly said to the Scout- 
master : 

“Where did you pick up those two kids, Smokey, and 
his — his pal, Jimmy?” 

“Oh, that’s quite a yarn,” said the Scoutmaster. 
“Both of them were New York newsboys. They got 
sick down there — ill-feeding, lack of care and so on, 
and drifted up here. We have a lot of invalids who 
come here for their health — rich mostly. But Jimmy 
and Smokey weren’t rich. In fact, if a couple of our 
boys hadn’t heard about them and done one of the 
best turns ever pulled off, I ” 

The Commissioner leaned forward and tapped the 
Scoutmaster on the knee. 

“Tell me the whole story,” said he, his eyes spark- 
ling. And the Scoutmaster did. 

The Story the Scoutmaster Told 

Smokey and Jimmy were newsboys in the big city. 
Smokey was much littler, I expect, when he invested 
his first pennies in papers and tried to hold his own 
.US 


THE MASCOT OF “TROOP I” 


with the newsboy gang at the Grand Central Station. 
Jimmy was cock of the walk and had licked every 
newsboy on the stand. He looked little Smokey over. 
He resented the smokiness, but hated to wallop him; 
there was so little to wallop. And because the other 
newsboys tried to, Jimmy walloped the whole lot of 
them all over again. After that he felt sort of re- 
sponsible for Smokey’s welfare. 

By and by Jimmy found out that Smokey never had 
had any parents. He came out of a colored orphan 
asylum — ran away, I expect. Jimmy didn’t know any- 
thing about his parents, either. He came out of a 
foundling hospital — ran away, too, perhaps. Anyway, 
Jimmy says he felt he didn’t have much on Smokey. 
They became close friends. Smokey thought Jimmy 
was God’s little brother, and Jimmy proved it by tak- 
ing absolute charge of Smokey’s destiny. 

They saved their pennies. Their living didn’t cost 
much. They fed mostly at the back door of an east 
side quick-lunch place. For domicile they shared a 
basement with a drunken janitor, an Italian organ- 
grinder, and a monkey. The monkey got shoved off 
a second-story window ledge by some Christian person 
who probably resented the Darwin theory and died 
several days later of internal injuries. Smokey nursed 
him, while Jimmy and the organ-grinder worked 
harder and raised enough money to get a doctor. The 
doctor was indignant when he found that his patient 
was of the Simian persuasion. But that’s a story by 
319 


THE BOY SCOUTS BOOK OF STORIES 


itself. You ought to hear Jimmy tell it. You’d find 
yourself laughing on only one side of your face. 

About a week after the monkey died, Smokey fell 
ill. He hated to get up in the morning. He was just 
as dead-tired in the morning as when he lay down. 
His smokiness turned from a soft coal to an anthracite 
hue, and he went off his feed. Jimmy thought maybe 
Smokey needed a little Christian Science and walloped 
him as an experiment. Smokey took it as he would 
have taken anything from Jimmy, but he said — and 
his eyes were probably as big and solemn as an owl’s : 

“ Jimmy,” said he, “dey ain’t no use’n you-all wal- 
lopin’ me. Hones’, Jimmy, Ah tinks Ah’s a moughty 
sick li’l nigger.” 

That stuck in Jimmy’s mind. He was sorry he had 
applied what he thought was practical Christian Sci- 
ence. He tried Smokey with therapeutic treatment. 
He gave him a cone of strawberry ice-cream. When 
Smokey ate only half of it, Jimmy knew it was a grave 
case and that something ought to be done about it. 

That night after Smokey had crawled into the 
packing case where he was in the habit of sleeping 
— usually with the lid on — Jimmy talked over the 
crisis with the organ-grinder and the janitor. The 
janitor thought corn whiskey was good and went out 
to get some. He didn’t come back that night and 
brought no whiskey when he turned up two days later. 
The organ-grinder, embittered by the loss of his 
monkey, had little faith in the medical profession; and 
320 


THE MASCOT OF “TROOP I” 

in this Jimmy concurred. The newsboy, however, 
read the papers he sold, and was under the impression 
that Jimmy ought to get out into the country. Also, 
he wasn’t sure that it was the best thing for Smokey 
to sleep in that packing-case with the lid on. Lacking 
funds, however, they were compelled to table the mo- 
tion that Smokey be sent to the woods. Meanwhile 
Smokey got thinner and weaker and finally he hadn’t 
the strength to push the lid off when he needed more 
air. It was then that the Lord provided. 

One of Smokey’s patrons was Pat Mulcahy, who 
drives the engine of the Montreal Express out of 
Grand Central every evening at 6.55. Smokey had 
been in the habit of taking a latest evening edition 
through to Pat in his engine cab. Mulcahy didn’t get 
his paper one night, but next evening Jimmy turned 
up alongside the big locomotive and said: 

“Here’s yer paper, Mister Mulcahy. Smokey’s 
down an’ out. I tink he’s got de OP Con. He wor- 
ried hisself near stiff last night ’cos he fergot t’ tell 
me youse was partic’lar ’bout gettin’ de final. But 
don’t youse worry, Mister, I’m runnin’ the whole biz 
till Smokey’s to rights again — see?” 

Mulcahy was a good fellow. He’d bought from 
Smokey because — well, perhaps he liked the little fel- 
low. He questioned Jimmy, and next night he cross- 
questioned him, about Smokey, and on the third night, 
when Jimmy reported the patient in a bad way, the 
engineer said : 


321 


THE BOY SCOUTS BOOK OF STORIES 


“Now, lookee here, Jimmy. Can Smokey walk? 
Do you think he can stand a trip ?” 

“It couldn’t make him no wuss, anyhow,” says 
Jimmy. 

“All right,” said Mtflcahy. “You get his things 
together. . . . Well just as he is, then . . . and bring 
him along here about 6.45 sharp to-morrow night — 
Hear?” 

“I get yuh,” said Jimmy. “Youse gonna give 
Smoky a free ride up to the country.” 

“You betcher life, Jimmy.” 

Smokey, when informed of this new turn of his 
destiny, didn’t care much whether he went or stayed 
in his box ; but Jimmy said he was to go, and of course 
that was all there was to it. 

Next evening, when Smokey, the most washed-out 
little nigger that ever wobbled on weak knees, turned 
up at the station with Jimmy, the whole gang was 
there to give him a send-off. The guards let them all 
through the gates after the conductor of the Adiron- 
dack section had passed a wink, and the group of 
youngsters escorted Smokey to the big, wheezing 
engine. Jimmy first presented Mulcahy with his final, 
refusing the usual cent for it. 

“Dat’s on de house dis time,” said Jimmy. 

“Here — you — beat it!” said he. “Do you want 
to make me trouble?” 

Smokey’s eyes were full of tears as he said : 

322 


THE MASCOT OF ‘‘TROOP F 

“So long, fellahs. You-all’s a moughty good 
bunch.” 

Then he whispered something to Jimmy, who said, 
“Aw, fudge !” and went away, much embarrassed. 

The engineer turned Smokey over to the conductor 
of the Adirondack section, and when the Montreal 
Express got under way he was comfortable on a pile 
of straw in a corner of the baggage car. At Pough- 
keepsie the conductor bought him a bottle of “pop.” 
At Albany he fell heir to an orange and a chicken 
sandwich. At Utica he was sound asleep and a col- 
ored porter came through and spread a perfectly good 
Pullman blanket over the boy. 

The train was wheezing at Tupper Lake when 
Smokey opened his eyes next morning. The baggage 
car door was opened and Smokey looked out. It was 
a big country, covered with trees and surrounded with 
great mountains. The sun was just rising and Smokey 
felt sure that this was the place where they made the 
movies. The golden east reminded him of his orange, 
and he ate it, — the orange. 

The colored porter came through and told the boy 
to stay where he was until ordered to get out. Smokey 
was disappointed to learn that his friend Mulcahy 
had gone off duty at Utica, where his wife lived. 
Ten minutes later the porter came back again. He 
had a glass tumbler in his hand and it was half full of 
quarters and fifty-cent pieces. 

“You is shuah a lucky kid,” said the porter. “Some 
323 


THE BOY SCOUTS BOOK OF STORIES 


o’ de gents in de Lake Placid smoker heerd ’bout you 
an’ chipped in all dis.” 

“Dey’s shuah-all a good bunch — folks is,” said 
Smokey, his eyes big as he totaled three dollars and 
twenty-five cents. 

The Adirondacks section was switched off the main 
line at Lake Clear junction, and less than half an hour 
later Smokey found himself in the main street of Sara- 
nac Lake. He made straight for the belt of woods 
that fringes the river below the falls of the power 
station, and sat down beneath a big pine. He felt 
that he could sit there forever and listen to the gos- 
sipy river and the whispering trees. It was very rest- 
ful. He ate some of his accumulated grub and went 
to sleep, his last thought a wish that Jimmy could be 
there. 

Mr. Commissioner (the Scoutmaster continued), 
that little nigger was in town about six weeks before 
our boys got on to him. He was lucky enough to get 
a job delivering newspapers for Tom Daley and, 
luckier still, the little fellow began to get well. 

So long as the nights were still summery he slept 
beneath that same pine below the falls, but when the 
Autumn snap set in he had to find shelter. It was 
Tolman, the undertaker — a good sort — good as they 
make ’em — who picked him up, asked a few questions 
and got him the loft of Fred Smith’s paintshop. A 
ladder ascended to a trap door and the garret was full 
of old truck; but Smokey thought it was a mansion 
,324 


THE MASCOT OF “TROOP I" 


with a marble staircase. He fixed up a couple of 
boxes for seats, and there was an old two-legged sofa 
that he propped up for a couch. He scurried around 
town, got hold of several burlap bags, stuffed them 
with hay and made himself a comfortable bed. Be- 
tween this and improving health and the delivery busi- 
ness, Smokey felt that he was prospering in the world. 

Then he got a letter. It was from Jimmy, to whom 
he had sent picture-postcards without getting a word 
in reply. But Jimmy's misspelled letter now ex- 
plained everything. 

“Dere smoke ” (it ran — or something like that — I read it), 
“I hate tu tell ya for I dident think it was annything but I 
got the old Con too an im awful sick and duno whatin bleazes 
im gone do, say is there anny chanst up there where yu ar, 
but don you worry bout me. Jimmy” 

It was a terrible blow to Smokey, but right away 
the optimism that seems to breed itself in these 
woods bolstered him to action. He promptly sent a 
picture-postcard, and on it he wrote: 

“yu se the injiner mr. Milcay, an come on up its fine an 
I got a swel plaze to liv and lots ov work, no selin jist de- 
liverin. Smokey” 

But that was only the beginning of Smokey’ s dis- 
charge of obligation. He interviewed the Pullman 
conductor. The conductor passed the word to Mul- 
cahy at Utica, and two days later the porter brought 
back word to the tense, waiting little figure at the 
325 


i 


THE BOY SCOUTS BOOK OF STORIES 


Saranac Lake station that it was all fixed and Jimmy 
was coming on by next night’s train. 

All that evening and all next day Smokey was 
mighty busy. He bolted the delivery of the New York 
papers, but at every house he stopped long enough to 
gasp: 

“Please lady, has you-all got any ole pitcher sup- 
plements ?” 

In the evening he had a pile of them. He had 
begged leave of Mat Munn, the grocer, to extract 
nails from discarded boxes. With these, and a brick 
for a hammer, he covered the sloping roof walls of 
the garret mansion with stage beauties, art supple- 
ments, Buster Browns, Happy Hooligans, baseball 
giants and magazine covers. This art paneling cov- 
ered every draughty hole or crack. Flour sacks draped 
Jimmy’s sofa-couch. All that last night, while the 
Montreal Express brought Jimmy into the hills, there 
sounded the persistent tap-tapping of Smokey’s brick 
hammer. 

But in the morning when Jimmy, pale and sickly, 
climbed down from the baggage-car, there was no 
Smokey to meet or greet him. Jimmy \vandered 
around, weakness of body conspiring with disappoint- 
ment to sap his courage. He had no idea where 
Smokey lived and, being a New Yorker with a metro- 
politan turn of thought, in that circumstance he felt 
himself and Smokey completely lost to each other. 

Presently, as Jimmy sat disconsolate on a baggage 
326 


THE MASCOT OF “TROOP I” 

truck, an individual in shirt sleeves and savoring of 
paint halted before him. After a moment’s study he 
said: 

“Hallo, Jimmy !” 

Jimmy started, hope returning; but neither the man 
nor the savor of paint conveyed anything profitable. 

“Aw, can the bunk stuff,” said he wearily. “I’m 
f’m Forty-second Street — see?” 

Fred the painter was able to extricate himself from 
suspicion, however. At the words “Smokey’s all to 
the bad,” Jimmy forgot everything, particularly him- 
self and his own illness. 

“Where izze?” he asked breathlessly. “I wanna 
see’m right away. D’yuh get me? Aw, don’t you 
tell me that li’l nigger’s gone an’ croaked?” 

“Naw, he ain’t croaked,” said Fred Smith, the 
painter, “but he’s awful bad, and he sent me to meet 
you, Jimmy, and tell you to come right on just the 
same, ’cause everything’s ready.” 

“He’s up there,” said Fred when they got to the 
shack. Jimmy, short of breath as he was, went up 
that ladder like a streak. At first he could see little, 
the garret was so dark, but a faint voice said from 
some burlap bags in the comer: 

“Is dat youse, Chimmy?” 

“What’s de matter, Smoke?” Jimmy’s voice was 
shaky and a short sharp cough punctuated his ques- 
tion. 

“Bles’ if Ah knows,” said Smokey. “Ah was ham- 

327 


THE BOY SCOUTS BOOK OF STORIES 


merin , a nail in Christy Mat’ewson when somet’in 
esploded in ma chiss. But say, Chimmy, light de 
can’le an’ pipe de livin’ room. Some — swell — Chim- 
my! — an’ Ah done it a-all ma-se’f!” 

Jimmy found the candle and lighted it. He sur- 
veyed Smokey lying in the corner, his eyes and 
head seeming a misfit for his frail body. The candle 
illumined the comic supplements and art sections on 
the sloping roof walls and the sofa with its flour-sack 
bedding turned down as for a guest. Lastly Jimmy’s 
eyes encountered several dark red spots on the floor. 

“Swell, ain’t it, Chimmy?” said Smokey. “Why 
don’t you-all say something?” 

For answer Jimmy blew out the candle somewhat 
hastily, and Fred at the foot of the ladder heard some 
one sobbing in the mansion above. 

The Scoutmaster turned to fumble with some papers 
on his desk. The Commissioner sat silent, his eyes 
wide and a bit shiny. He said nothing for at least 
half a minute, then, clearing his throat : 

“And what then?” 

“Oh, the rest is simple enough,” said the Scout- 
master. “One of our Scouts got wind of it and told 
his patrol leader and they investigated. Then they 
got the other Scouts of the patrol together, went into 
the woods and cut some fuel, got a basket of grub 
and provisions from their mothers and a delegation 
of two called on Dr. Trudeau — you’ve heard of him 
— died just the other day — the Grenfell of the hills — 
328 

> / 


THE MASCOT OF “TROOP I” 

and the doctor sent a nurse and then moved Jim- 
my and Smokey to a hospital, and— — ” 

The Scoutmaster broke off, chuckling. 

“Funny thing,” he said, “when the great doctor 
climbed the ladder to where the two boys were lying 
sick, Jimmy, remembering the doctor who wouldn’t 
attend the monkey, got suspicious and he said to Dr. 
Trudeau: There’s just wan thing you got to un’stand 
right away, Doc. Smokey may be a li’l nigger, but 
he ain't no monk! D’yuh get me?’ ” 

They both got well, and they got work, too. Then 
one evening they came down to look over this Scout 
business that had helped them for not so much as a 
“thank you” and — well, Jimmy’s a good little Scout. 
As for Smokey, he’s the Troop Mascot, but — he still 
thinks Jimmy is God’s little brother; and I don’t know 
that I blame him.” 

“Fine!” said the Commissioner, and a few seconds 
later he repeated with even more emphasis, “FINE!” 



XVI. — The Lion's Smile* 

By Thomas IV. Hanshew 

Cleek, the Master Detective of Scotland Yard, or “the 
Man of Forty Faces ” as he was sometimes called, solved the 
riddles that proved too much for his friend, Mr. Maverick 
Narkom, Superintendent of Police. I am confident boys will 
enjoy meeting “Cleek” and will, with keen delight, follow 
him as he unravels the threads of the great mystery of the 
“lion's smile .” — The Editor. 

I T was on the very stroke of five when Cleek, 
answering an urgent message from headquarters, 
strolled into the bar parlor of “The Fiddle and 
Horseshoe,” which, as you may possibly know, stands 
near to the Green in a somewhat picturesque by-path 
between Shepherd’s Bush and Acton, and found Nar- 
kom in the very act of hanging up his hat and with- 
drawing his gloves preparatory to ordering tea. 

* Reprinted by special permission from “Cleek, the Master 
Detective.” Copyright, 1918, by Doubleday, Page and Company. 

330 


THE LION’S SMILE 

“My dear Cleek, what a model of punctuality you 
are,” said the superintendent, as he came forward and 
shook hands with him. “You would put Father Time 
himself to the blush with your abnormal promptness. 
Do make yourself comfortable for a moment or two 
while I go and order tea. I’ve only just arrived. 
Shan’t be long, old chap.” 

“Pray don’t hurry yourself upon my account, Mr. 
Narkom,” replied Cleek, as he tossed his hat and 
gloves upon a convenient table and strolled leisurely 
to the window and looked out on the quaint, old- 
fashioned arbor-bordered bowling green, all steeped 
in sunshine and zoned with the froth of pear and apple 
blooms, thick-piled above the time-stained brick of 
the enclosing wall. “These quaint old inns, which 
the march of what we are pleased to call ‘progress’ 
is steadily crowding off the face of the land, are 
always deeply interesting to me; I love them. What 
a day! What a picture! What a sky! As blue as 
what Dollops calls the ‘Merry Geranium Sea.’ I’d 
give a Jew’s eye for a handful of those apple blos- 
soms, they are divine!” 

Narkom hastened from the room without replying. 
The strain of poetry underlying the character of this 
strange, inscrutable man, his amazing love of Nature, 
his moments of almost womanish weakness and senti- 
ment, astonished and mystified him. It was as if a 
hawk had acquired the utterly useless trick of fluting 
like a nightingale, and being himself wholly without 
331 


THE BOY SCOUTS BOOK OF STORIES 

imagination, he could not comprehend it in the small- 
est degree. 

When he returned a few minutes later, however, the 
idealist seemed to have simmered down into the mate- 
rialist, the extraordinary to have become merged in 
the ordinary, for he found his famous ally no longer 
studying the beauties of Nature, but giving his whole 
attention to the sordid commonplaces of man. He 
was standing before a glaringly printed bill, one of 
many that were tacked upon the walls, which set forth 
in amazing pictures and double-leaded type the won- 
ders that were to be seen daily and nightly at Olympia, 
where, for a month past, “Van Zant’s Royal Belgian 
Circus and World-famed Menagerie” had been holding 
forth to “Crowded and delighted audiences.” Much 
was made of two “star turns” upon this lurid bill : 
“Mademoiselle Marie de Zanoni, the beautiful and 
peerless bare-back equestrienne, the most daring lady 
rider in the universe,” for the one; and, for the other, 
“Chevalier Adrian di Roma, king of the animal world, 
with his great aggregation of savage and ferocious 
wild beasts, including the famous man-eating African 
lion, Nero, the largest and most ferocious animal of 
its species in captivity.” And under this latter an- 
nouncement there was a picture of a young and hand- 
some man, literally smothered with medals, lying at 
full length, with his arms crossed and his head in the 
wide-open jaws of a snarling, wild-eyed lion. 

“My dear chap, you really do make me believe that 
332 


THE LION’S SMILE 


there actually is such a thing as instinct,” said Nar- 
kom, as he came in. “Fancy your selecting that par- 
ticular bill out of all the others in the room! What 
an abnormal individual you are!” 

“Why? Has it anything to do with the case you 
have in hand?” 

“Anything to do with it? My dear fellow, it is ‘the 
case/ I can’t imagine what drew your attention 
to it.” 

“Can’t you?” said Cleek, with a half smile. Then 
he stretched forth his hand and touched the word 
“Nero” with the tip of his forefinger. “That did. 
Things awaken a man’s memory occasionally, Mr. 

Narkom, and Tell me, isn’t that the beast there 

was such a stir about in the newspapers a fortnight 
or so ago, the lion that crushed the head of a man in 
full view of the audience?” 

“Yes,” replied Narkom, with a slight shudder. 
“Awful thing, wasn’t it? Gave me the creeps to 
read about it. The chap who was killed, poor beggar, 
was a mere boy, not twenty, son of the Chevalier di 
Roma himself. There was a great stir about it. Talk 
of the authorities forbiding the performance, and all 
that sort of thing. They never did, however, for on 

investigation Ah, the tea at last, thank fortune. 

Come, sit down, my dear fellow, and we’ll talk whilst 
we refresh ourselves. Landlady, see that we are not 
disturbed, will you, and that nobody is admitted but 
the parties I mentioned?” 

333 


THE BOY SCOUTS BOOK OF STORIES 

“Clients?” queried Cleek, as the door closed and 
they were alone together. 

“Yes. One, Mile. Zelie, the ‘chevalier ’s’ only daugh- 
ter, a slack-wire artist; the other, Signor Scarmelli, a 
trapeze performer, who is the lady’s fiance.” 

“Ah, then our friend the chevalier is not so young 
as the picture on the bill would have us believe he is.” 

“No, he is not. As a matter of fact, he is consider- 
ably past forty, and is, or rather, was, up to six months 
ago, a widower, with three children, two sons and a 
daughter.” 

“I suppose,” said Cleek, helping himself to a buttered 
scone, “I am to infer from what you say that at the 
period mentioned, six months ago, the intrepid gentle- 
man showed his courage yet more forcibly by taking 
a second wife? Young or old?” 

“Young,” said Narkom in reply. “Very young, not 
yet four-and-twenty, in fact, and very, very beautiful. 
That is she who is ‘featured’ on the bill as the star of 
the equestrian part of the program: ‘Mile. Marie de 
Zanoni.’ So far as I have been able to gather, the 
affair was a love match. The lady, it appears, had no 
end of suitors, both in and out of the profession; it 
has even been hinted that she could, had she been so 
minded, have married an impressionable young Aus- 
trian nobleman of independent means who was madly 
in love with her; but she appears to have considered 
it preferable to become ‘an old man’s darling,’ so to 
speak, and to have selected the middle-aged chevalier 
334 


THE LION’S SMILE 

rather than some one whose age is nearer her own.” 

' “Nothing new in that, Mr. Narkom. Young women 
before Mile. Marie de Zanoni’s day have been known 
to love elderly men sincerely : young Mrs. Bawdrey, in 
the case of ‘The Nine-fingered Skeleton,’ is an example 
of that. Still, such marriages are not common, I 
admit, so when they occur one naturally looks to see 
if there may not be ‘other considerations’ at the bottom 
of the attachment. Is the chevalier well-to-do? Has 
he expectations of any kind?” 

“To the contrary; he has nothing, but the salary he 
earns, which is by no means so large as the public 
imagines; and as he comes of a long line of circus 
performers, all of whom died early and poor, ‘expecta- 
tions,’ as you put it, do not enter into the affair at all. 
Apparently the lady did marry him for love of him, 
as she professes and as he imagines; although, if what 
I hear is true, it would appear that she has lately out- 
grown that love. It seems that a Romeo more suit- 
able to her age has recently joined the show in the 
person of a rider called Signor Antonio Martinelli; 
that he has fallen desperately in love with her, and 
that ” 

He bit off his words short and rose to his feet. The 
door had opened suddenly to admit a young man and a 
young woman, who entered in a state of nervous ex- 
citement. “Ah, my dear Mr. Scarmelli, you and Miss 
Zelie are most welcome,” continued the superintendent. 
335 


THE BOY SCOUTS BOOK OF STORIES 

“My friend and I were this moment talking about 
you” 

Cleek glanced across the room, and, as was custom- 
ary with him, made up his mind instantly. The girl, 
despite her association with the arena, was a modest, 
unaffected little thing of about eighteen ; the man was 
a straight-looking, clear-eyed, boyish-faced young fel- 
low of about eight-and-twenty, well, but by no means 
flashily, dressed, and carrying himself with the air 
of one who respects himself and demands the respect 
of others. He was evidently an Englishman, despite 
his Italian nom de theatre , and Cleek decided out of 
hand that he liked him. 

“We can shelve ‘George Headland’ in this instance, 
Mr. Narkom,” he said, as the superintendent led for- 
ward the pair for the purpose of introducing them, 
and suffered himself to be presented in the name of 
Cleek. 

The effect of this was electrical ; would, in fact, had 
he been a vain man have been sufficient to gratify 
him to the fullest, for the girl, with a little “Oh !” of 
amazement, drew back and stood looking at him with a 
sort of awe that rounded her eyes and parted her lips, 
while the man leaned heavily upon the back of a con- 
venient chair and looked and acted as one utterly 
overcome. 

“Cleek!” he repeated, after a moment’s despairful 
silence. “You, sir, are that great man? This is a 
misfortune indeed.” 


336 


THE LION’S SMILE 


“A misfortune, my friend? Why a 'misfortune/ 
pray? Do you think the riddle you have brought is 
beyond my powers ?” 

“Oh, no; not that — never that!” he made reply. 
“If there is any one man in the world who could get 
at the bottom of it, could solve the mystery of the 
lion’s change, the lion’s smile, you are that man, sir, 
you. That is the misfortune: that you could do it, 
and yet I cannot expect it, cannot avail myself of this 
great opportunity. Look! I am doing it all on my 
own initiative, sir, for the sake of Zelie and that dear, 
lovable old chap, her father. I have saved fifty-eight 
pounds, Mr. Cleek. I had hoped that that might 
tempt a clever detective to take up the case; but what 
is such a sum to such a man as you ?” 

“If that is all that stands in the way, don’t let it 
worry you, my good fellow,” said Cleek, with a smile. 
“Put your fifty-eight pounds in your pocket against 
your wedding-day and good luck to you. I’ll take 
the case for nothing. Now then, what is it? What 
the dickens did you mean just now when you spoke 
about 'the lion’s change’ and 'the lion’s smile’ ? What 
lion — Nero? Here, sit down and tell me all about 
it.” 

“There is little enough to tell, Heavens knows,” 
said young Scarmelli, with a sigh, accepting the invita- 
tion after he had gratefully wrung Cleek’s hand, and 
his fiancee, with a burst of happy tears, had caught 
it up as it slipped from his and had covered it with 
337 


THE BOY SCOUTS BOOK OF STORIES 


thankful kisses. “That, Mr. Cleek, is where the great- 
est difficulty lies, there is so little to explain that has 
any bearing upon the matter at all. It is only that the 
lion, Nero, that is, the chevalier's special pride and 
special pet, seems to have undergone some great and 
inexplicable change, as though he is at times under 
some evil spell, which lasts but a moment and yet 
makes that moment a tragical one. It began, no one 
knows why nor how, two weeks ago, when, without 
hint or warning, he killed the person he loved best 
in all the world, the chevalier’s eldest son. Doubtless 
you have heard of that?” 

“Yes,” said Cleek. “But what you are now telling 
me sheds a new light upon the matter. Am I to 
understand, then, that all that talk, on the bills and 
in the newspapers, about the lion being savage and a 
dangerous one is not true, and that he really is at- 
tached to his owner and his owner’s family?” 

“Yes,” said Scarmelli. “He is indeed the gentlest, 
most docile, most intelligent beast of his kind living. 
In short, sir, there’s not a 'bite’ in him; and, added to 
that, he is over thirty years old. Zelie, Miss di Roma, 
will tell you that he was born in captivity; that from 
his earliest moment he has been the pet of her family ; 
that he was, so to speak, raised with her and her 
brothers; that, as children, they often slept with him; 
and that he will follow those he loves like any dog, 
fight for them, protect them, let them tweak his ears 
and pull his tail without showing the slightest resent- 

338 


THE LION’S SMILE 

ment, even though they may actually hurt him. In- 
deed, he is so general a favorite, Mr. Cleek, that there 
isn’t an attendant connected with the show who would 
not, and, indeed, has not at some time, put his head 
in the beast’s mouth, just as the chevalier does in pub- 
lic, certain that no harm could possibly come of the 
act. 

“You may judge, then, sir, what a shock, what a 
horrible surprise it was when the tragedy of two weeks 
ago occurred. Often, to add zest to the performance, 
the chevalier varies it by allowing his children to put 
their heads into Nero’s mouth instead of doing so 
himself, merely making a fake of it that he has the 
lion under such control that he will respect any com- 
mand given by him. That is what happened on that 
night. Young Henri was chosen to put his head into 
Nero’s mouth, and did so without fear or hesitation. 
He took the beast’s jaws and pulled them apart, and 
laid his head within them, as he had done a hundred 
times before; but, of a sudden an appalling, an un- 
canny, thing happened. It was as though some super- 
natural power laid hold of the beast and made a thing 
of horror of what a moment before had been a noble- 
looking animal. Suddenly a strange hissing noise is- 
sued from its jaws, its lips curled upward until it 
smiled — smiled, Mr. Cleek! — oh, the ghastliest, most 
awful, most blood-curdling smile imaginable, and then, 
with a sort of mingled snarl and bark, it clamped its 
339 


THE BOY SCOUTS BOOK OF STORIES 

jaws together and crushed the boy’s head as though 
it were an egg-shell 1” 

He put up his hands and covered his eyes as if to 
shut out some appalling vision, and for a moment or 
two nothing was heard but the low sobbing of the 
victim’s sister. 

“As suddenly as that change had come over the 
beast, Mr. Cleek,” Scarmelli went on presently, “just 
so suddenly it passed, and it was the docile, affectionate 
animal it had been for years. It seemed to under- 
stand that some harm had befallen its favorite — for 
Henri was its favorite — and, curling itself up beside 
his body, it licked his hands and moaned disconsolately 
in a manner almost human. That’s all there is to tell, 
sir, save that at times the horrid change, the appalling 
smile, repeat themselves when either the chevalier or 
his son bend to put a head within its jaws, and but 
for their watchfulness and quickness the tragedy of 
that other awful night would surely be repeated. Sir, 
it is not natural; I know now, as surely as if the lion 
itself had spoken, that some one is at the bottom of 
this ghastly thing, that some human agency is at work, 
some unknown enemy of the chevalier’s is doing some- 
thing, God alone knows what or why, to bring about 
his death as his son’s was brought about.” 

And here, for the first time, the chevalier’s daughter 
spoke. 

“Ah, tell him all, Jim, tell him all!” she said, in her 
pretty broken English. “Monsieur, may the good 
340 


THE LION’S SMILE 

God in heaven forgive me if I wrong her; but — 1 

but Ah, Monsieur Cleek, sometimes I feel that 

she, my stepmother, and that man, that ‘rider’ who 
knows not how to ride as the artist should, monsieur, 
I cannot help it, but I feel that they are at the bottom 
of it.” 

“Yes, but why?” queried Cleek. “I have heard of 
your father’s second marriage, mademoiselle, and of 
this Signor Antonio Martinelli, to whom you allude. 
Mr. Narkom has told me. But why should you con- 
nect these two persons with this inexplicable thing? 
Does your father do so, too?” 

“Oh, no! oh, no!” she answered excitedly. “He 
does not even know that we suspect, Jim and I. He 
loves her, monsieur. It would kill him to doubt her.” 

“Then why should you?” 

“Because I cannot help it, monsieur. God knows, I 
would if I could, for I care for her dearly, I am grate- 
ful to her for making my father happy. My brothers, 
too, cared for her. We believed she loved him; we 
believed it was because of that that she married him. 

And yet — and yet Ah, monsieur, how can I fail 

to feel as I do when this change in the lion came with 
that man’s coming? And she — ah, monsieur, why 
is she always with him? Why does she curry favor 
of him and his rich friend?” 

“He has a rich friend, then?” 

“Yes, monsieur. The company was in difficulties; 
Monsieur van Zant, the proprietor, could not make it 
341 


THE BOY SCOUTS BOOK OF STORIES 


pay, and it was upon the point of disbanding. But 
suddenly this indifferent performer, this rider who is, 
after all, but a poor amateur and not fit to appear with 
a company of trained artists, suddenly this Signor 
Martinelli comes to Monsieur van Zant to say that, 
if he will engage him, he has a rich friend, one Senor 
Sperati, a Brazilian coffee planter, who will ‘back* the 
show with his money, and buy a partnership in it. Of 
course M. van Zant accepted ; and since then this Senor 
Sperati has traveled everywhere with us, has had the 
entree like one of us, and his friend, the bad rider, 
has fairly bewitched my stepmother, for she is ever 

with him, ever with them both, and — and Ah, 

mon Dieu! the lion smiles, and my people die! Why 
does it ‘smile’ for no others? Why is it only they, 
my father, my brother, they alone?” 

“Is that a fact?” said Cleek, turning to young Scar- 
melli. “You say that all connected with the circus 
have so little fear of the beast that even attendants 
sometimes do this foolhardy trick? Does the lion 
never ‘smile’ for any of those?” 

“Never, Mr. Cleek, never under any circumstances. 
Nor does it always smile for the chevalier and his son. 
That is the mystery of it. One never knows when it 
is going to happen; one never knows why it does hap- 
pen. But if you could see that uncanny smile ” 

“I should like to,” interposed Cleek. “That is, if 
it might happen without any tragical result. Hum- 
m-m! Nobody but the chevalier and the chevalier’s 
342 


THE LION’S SMILE 


son! And when does it happen in their case, during 
the course of the show, or when there is nobody about 
but those connected with it?” 

‘‘Oh, always during the course of the entertainment, 
sir. Indeed, it has never happened at any other time 
— never at all.” 

“Oho!” said Cleek. “Then it is only when they are 
dressed and made up for the performance, eh? Hum- 
m-m! I see.” Then he lapsed into silence for a 
moment, and sat tracing circles on the floor with the 
toe of his boot. But, of a sudden: “You came here 
directly after the matinee, I suppose?” he queried, 
glancing up at young Scarmelli. 

“Yes; in fact, before it was wholly over.” 

“I see. Then it is just possible that all the per- 
formers have not yet got into their civilian clothes. 
Couldn’t manage to take me round behind the scenes, 
so to speak, if Mr. Narkom will lend us his motor to 
hurry us there? Could, eh? That’s good. I think 
I’d like to have a look at that lion and, if you don’t 
mind, an introduction to the parties concerned. No! 
don’t fear; we won’t startle anybody by revealing my 
identity or the cause of the visit. Let us say that I’m 
a vet. to whom you have appealed for an opinion re- 
garding Nero’s queer conduct. All ready, Mr. Nar- 
kom? Then let’s be off.” 

Two minutes later the red limousine was at the 
door, and, stepping into it with his two companions, 
343 


THE BOV SCOUTS BOOK OF STORIES 


he was whizzed away to Olympia and the first step to- 
ward the solution of the riddle. 

II 

As it is the custom of those connected with the 
world of the circus to eat, sleep, have their whole 
being, as it were, within the environment of the show, 
to the total exclusion of hotels, boarding-houses, or 
outside lodgings of any sort, he found on his arrival 
at his destination the entire company assembled in 
what was known as the “living-tent, ” chatting, laugh- 
ing, reading, playing games and killing time generally 
whilst waiting for the call to the “dining-tent, 1 ” and 
this gave him an opportunity to meet all the persons 
connected with the “case,” from the “chevalier” him- 
self to the Brazilian coffee planter who was “backing” 
the show. 

He found this latter individual a somewhat sullen 
and taciturn man of middle age, who had more the 
appearance of an Austrian than a Brazilian, and with 
a swinging gait and an uprightness of bearing which 
were not to be misunderstood. 

“Humph! Known military training,” was Cleek’s 
mental comment as soon as he saw the man walk. 
“Got it in Germany, too; I know that peculiar ‘swing/ 
What’s his little game, I wonder? And what’s a 
Brazilian doing in the army of the Kaiser? And, hav- 
ing been in it, what’s he doing dropping into this line ; 
344 


THE LION’S SMILE 

backing a circus, and traveling with it like a Bohe- 
mian ?” 

But although these thoughts interested him, he did 
not put them into words nor take anybody into his 
confidence regarding them. 

As for the other members of the company, he found 
“the indifferent rider,” known as Signor Antonio Mar- 
tinelli, an undoubted Irishman of about thirty years 
of age, extremely handsome, but with a certain “shifti- 
ness” of the eye which was far from inspiring con- 
fidence, and with a trick of the tongue which suggested 
that his baptismal certificate probably bore the name of 
Anthony Martin. He found, too, that all he had 
heard regarding the youth and beauty of the chev- 
alier’s second wife was quite correct, and although she 
devoted herself a great deal to the Brazilian coffee 
planter and the Irish-Italian “Martinelli,” she had a 
way of looking over at her middle-aged spouse, without 
his knowledge, that left no doubt in Geek’s mind re- 
garding the real state of her feelings toward the man. 
And last, but not least by any means, he found the 
chevalier himself a frank, open-minded, open-hearted, 
lovable man, who ought not, in the natural order of 
things, to have an enemy in the world. Despite his 
high-falutin nom de theatre , he was a Belgian, a big, 
soft-hearted, easy-going, unsuspicious fellow, who 
worshiped his wife, adored his children, and loved 
every creature of the animal world. 

How well that love was returned, Cleek saw when 

345 


THE BOY SCOUTS BOOK OF STORIES 


he went with him to that part of the building where his 
animals were kept, and watched them “nose” his hand 
or lick' his cheek whenever the opportunity offered. 
But Nero, the lion, was perhaps the greatest surprise 
of all, for so tame, so docile, so little feared was the 
animal, that its cage door was open, and they found 
one of the attendants squatting cross-legged inside 
and playing with it as though it were a kitten. 

“There he is, doctor,” said the chevalier, waving his 
hand toward the beast. “Ah, I will not believe that it 
was anything but an accident, sir. He loved my boy. 
He would hurt no one that is kind to him. Fetch him 
out, Tom, and let the doctor see him at close quarters.” 

Despite all these assurances of the animal’s docility 
Cleek could not but remember what the creature had 
done, and, in consequence, did not feel quite at ease 
when it came lumbering out of the cage with the at- 
tendant and ranged up alongside of him, rubbing its 
huge head against the chevalier’s arm after the man- 
ner of an affectionate cat. 

“Don’t be frightened, sir,” said Tom, noticing this. 
“Nothing more’n a big dog, sir. Had the care of him 
for eight years, I have — haven’t I, chevalier? — and 
never a growl or scratch out of him. No 'smile’ for 
your old Tom, is there, Nero, boy, eh? No fear! 
Ain’t a thing as anybody does with him, sir, that I 
wouldn’t do off-hand and feel quite safe.” 

“Even to putting your head in his mouth ?” queried 
Geek. 


346 


THE LION’S SMILE 


“Lor’, yes !” returned the man, with a laugh. 
“That’s nothing. Done it many a day. Look here!” 
With that he pulled the massive jaws apart, and, bend- 
ing down, laid his head within them. The lion stood 
perfectly passive, and did not offer to close his mouth 
until it was again empty. It was then that Cleek 
remembered, and glanced round at young Scarmelli. 

“He never ‘smiles’ for any but the chevalier and his 
son, I believe you said,” he remarked. “I wonder if 
the chevalier himself would be as safe if he were to 
make a feint of doing that?” For the chevalier, like 
most of the other performers, had not changed his 
dress after the matinee, since the evening performance 
was so soon to begin; and if, as Cleek had an idea, 
the matter of costume and make-up had anything to 
do with the mystery of the thing, here, surely, was a 
chance to learn. 

“Make a feint of it? Certainly I will, doctor,” the 
chevalier replied. “But why a feint? Why not the 
actual thing?” 

“No, please — at least, not until I have seen how the 
beast is likely to take it. Just put your head down close 
to his muzzle, chevalier. Go slow, please, and keep 
your head at a safe distance.” 

The chevalier obeyed. Bringing his head down 
until it was on a level with the animal’s own, he opened 
the ponderous jaws. The beast was as passive as 
before; and, finding no trace of the coming of the 
mysterious and dreaded “smile,” he laid his face be- 
347 


THE BOY SCOUTS BOOK OF STORIES 

tween the double row of gleaming teeth, held it there 
a moment, and then withdrew it uninjured. Cleek 
took his chin between his thumb and forefinger and 
pinched it hard. What he had just witnessed would 
seem to refute the idea of either costume or make-up 
having any bearing upon the case. 

“Did you do that to-day at the matinee performance, 
chevalier ?" he hazarded, after a moment's thought- 
fulness. 

“Oh, yes/' he replied. “It was not my plan to do 
so, however. I alter my performance constantly to 
give variety. To-day I had arranged for my little 

son to do the trick; but somehow Ah! I am a 

foolish man, monsieur; I have odd fancies, odd whims, 
sometimes odd fears, since — since that awful night. 
Something came over me at the last moment, and just 
as my boy came into the cage to perform the trick I 
changed my mind. I would not let him do it. I 
thrust him aside and did the trick myself." 

“Oho!" said Cleek. “Will the boy do it to-night, 
then, chevalier?" 

“Perhaps," he made reply. “He is still dressed for 
it. Look, here he comes now, monsieur, and my wife, 
and some of our good friends with him. Ah, they are 
so interested, they are anxious to hear what report you 
make upon Nero's condition." 

Cleek glanced round. Several members of the com- 
pany were advancing toward them from the “living- 
tent." In the lead was the boy, a little fellow of 

348 


THE LION’S SMILE 

about twelve years of age, fancifully dressed in tights 
and tunic. By his side was his stepmother, looking 
pale and anxious. But although both Signor Mar- 
tinelli and the Brazilian coffee planter came to the edge 
of the tent and looked out, it was observable that they 
immediately withdrew, and allowed the rest of the 
party to proceed without them. 

“Dearest, I have just heard from Tom that you and 
the doctor are experimenting with Nero,” said the 
chevalier’s wife, as she came up with the others and 
joined him. “Oh, do be careful, do! Much as I like 
the animal, doctor, I shall never feel safe until my 
husband parts with it or gives up that ghastly ‘trick.’ ” 

“My dearest, my dearest, how absurdly you talk!” 
interrupted her husband. “You know well that with- 
out that my act would be commonplace, that no man- 
ager would want either it or me. And how, pray, 
should we live if that were to happen?” 

“There would always be my salary; we could make 
that do.” 

“As if I would consent to live upon your earnings 
and add nothing myself! No, no! I shall never do 
that, never. It is not as though that foolish dream of 
long ago had come true, and I might hope one day to 
retire. I am of the circus, and of it I shall always 
remain.” 

“I wish you might not; I wish the dream might 
come true, even yet,” she made reply. “Why shouldn’t 
349 


THE BOY SCOUTS BOOK OF STORIES 

it? Wilder ones have come true for other people; 
why should they not for you ?” 

Before her husband could make any response to 
this, the whole trend of the conversation was altered 
by the boy. 

“Father,” he said, “am I to do the trick to-night? 
Senor Sperati says it is silly of me to sit about all 
dressed and ready if I am to do nothing, like a little 
super, instead of a performer, and an artist.” 

“Oh, but that is not kind of the senor to say that,” 
his father replied, soothing his ruffled feelings. “You 
are an artist, of course; never super — no, never. But 
if you shall do the trick or not, I cannot say. It will 
depend, as it did at the matinee. If I feel it is right, 
you shall do it; but if I feel it is wrong, then it must 
be no. You see, doctor,” catching Cleek’s eye, “what 
a little enthusiast he is, and with how little fear.” 

“Yes, I do see, chevalier; but I wonder if he would 
be willing to humor me in something? As he is not 
afraid, I’ve an odd fancy to see how he’d go about the 
thing. Would you mind letting him make the feint 
you yourself made a few minutes ago? Only, I must 
insist that in this instance it be nothing more than a 
feint, chevalier. Don’t let him go too near at the time 
of doing it. Don’t let him open the lion’s jaws with 
his own hands. You do that. Do you mind?” 

“Of a certainty not, monsieur. Gustave, show the 
good doctor how you go about it when papa lets you 
do the trick. But you are not really to do it just yet, 
350 


THE LION’S SMILE 

only to bend the head near to Nero’s mouth. Now 
then, come see.” 

As he spoke he divided the lion’s jaws and signaled 
the child to bend. He obeyed. .Very slowly the little 
head drooped nearer to the gaping, full-fanged mouth, 
very slowly and very carefully, for Cleek’s hand was 
on the boy’s shoulder, Cleek’s eyes were on the lion’s 
face. The huge brute was as meek and as undisturbed 
as before, and there was actual kindness in its fixed 
eyes. But of a sudden, when the child’s head was 
on a level with those gaping jaws, the lips curled 
backward in a ghastly parody of a smile, a weird, un- 
canny sound whizzed through the bared teeth, the 
passive body bulked as with a shock, and Cleek had 
just time to snatch the boy back when the great jaws 
struck together with a snap that would have splintered 
a skull of iron had they closed upon it. 

The hideous and mysterious “smile” had come 
again, and, brief though it was, its passing found the 
boy’s sister lying on the ground in a dead faint, the 
boy’s stepmother cowering back, with covered eyes 
and shrill, affrighted screams, and the boy’s father 
leaning, shaken and white, against the empty cage 
and nursing a bleeding hand. 

In an instant the whole place was in an uproar. 
“It smiled again! It smiled again!” ran in broken 
gasps from lip to lip; but through it all Cleek stood 
there, clutching the frightened child close to him, but 
not saying one word, not making one sound. Across 
35 1 


THE BOY SCOUTS BOOK OF STORIES 

the dark arena came a rush of running footsteps, and 
presently Senor Sperati came panting up, breathless 
and pale with excitement. 

“What’s the matter? What’s wrong?” he cried. 
“Is it the lion again ? Is the boy killed ? Speak up !” 

“No,” said Cleek very quietly, “nor will he be. The 
father will do the trick to-night, not the son. We’ve 
had a fright and a lesson, that’s all.” And, putting 
the sobbing child from him, he caught young Scar- 
melli’s arm and hurried him away. “Take me some- 
where that we can talk in safety,” he said. “We are 
on the threshold of the end, Scarmelli, and I want 
your help.” 

“Oh, Mr. Cleek, have you any idea, any clue?” 

“Yes, more than a clue. I know how, but I have 
not yet discovered why. Now, if you know, tell me 
what did the chevalier mean, what did his wife mean, 
when they spoke of a dream that might have come true 
but didn’t ? Do you know ? Have you any * idea ? 
Or, if you have not, do you think your fiancee has?” 

“Why, yes,” he made reply. “Zelie has told me 
about it often. It is of a fortune that was promised 
and never materialized. Oh, such a long time ago, 
when he was quite a young man, the chevalier saved 
the life of a very great man, a Prussian nobleman of 
great wealth. He was profuse in his thanks and his 
promises, that nobleman; swore that he would make 
him independent for life, and all that sort of thing.” 

“And didn’t?” 


352 


THE LION’S SMILE 


“No, he didn’t. After a dozen letters promising the 
chevalier things that almost turned his head, the man 
dropped him entirely. In the midst of his dreams 
of wealth a letter came from the old skinflint’s steward 
enclosing him the sum of six hundred marks, and tell- 
ing him that as his master had come to the conclusion 
that wealth would be more of a curse than a blessing 
to a man of his class and station, he had thought better 
of his rash promise. He begged to tender the en- 
closed as a proper and sufficient reward for the service 
rendered, and 'should not trouble the young man any 
further.’ Of course, the chevalier didn’t reply. Who 
would, after having been promised wealth, education, 
everything one had confessed that one most desired? 
Being young, high-spirited, and bitterly, bitterly disap- 
pointed, the chevalier bundled the six hundred marks 
back without a single word, and that was the last he 
ever heard of the Baron von Steinheid from that day 
to this.” 

“The Baron von Steinheid ?” repeated Cleek, pulling 
himself up as though he had trodden upon something. 
“Do you mean to say that the man whose life he 

saved Scarmelli, tell me something: Does it 

happen by any chance that the 'Chevalier di Roma’s’ 
real name is Peter Janssen Pullaine?” 

“Yes,” said Scarmelli, in reply. “That is his name. 
Why?” 

“Nothing, but that it solves the riddle, and the lion 
has smiled for the last time! No, don’t ask me any 
353 


THE BOY SCOUTS BOOK OF STORIES 


questions; there isn’t time to explain. Get me as 
quickly as you can to the place where we left Mr. 
Narkom’s motor. Will this way lead me out? 
Thanks! Get back to the others, and look for me 
again in two hours’ time ; and Scarmelli ?” 

“Yes, sir?” 

“One last word : don’t let that boy get out of your 
sight for one instant, and don’t, no matter at what 
cost, let the chevalier do his turn to-night before I get 
back. Good-bye for a time. I’m off.” 

Then he moved like a fleetly passing shadow round 
the angle of the building, and two minutes later was 
with Narkom in the red limousine. 

“To the German embassy as fast as we can fly,” he 
said as he scrambled in. “I’ve something to tell you 
about that lion’s smile, Mr. Narkom, and I’ll tell it 
while we’re on the wing.” 


Ill 


It was nine o’clock and after. The great show at 
Olympia was at its height ; the packed house was roar- 
ing with delight over the daring equestrianship of 
“Mademoiselle Marie de Zanoni,” and the sound of 
the cheers rolled in to the huge dressing-tent, where 
the artists awaited their several turns, and the chev- 
alier, in spangled trunks and tights, all ready for his 
call, sat hugging his child and shivering like a man 
with the ague. 


354 


THE LION’S SMILE 

“Come, come, buck up, man, and don’t funk it like 
this,” said Senor Sperati, who had graciously con- 
sented to assist him with his dressing because of the 
injury to his hand. “The idea of you losing your 
nerve, you of all men, and because of a little affair like 
that. You know very well that Nero is as safe as 
a kitten to-night, that he never has two smiling turns 
in the same week, much less the same day. Your 
act’s the next on the program. Buck up and go at it 
like a man.” 

“I can’t, senor, I can’t!” almost wailed the chev- 
alier. “My nerve is gone. Never, if I live to be a 
thousand, shall I forget that awful moment, that ap- 
palling ‘smile.’ I tell you there is wizardry in the 
thing; the beast is bewitched. My work in the arena 
is done, done forever, senor. I shall never have cour- 
age to look into the beast’s jaws again. 

“Rot! You’re not going to ruin the show, are you, 
and after all the money I’ve put into it? If you have 
no care for yourself, it’s your duty to think about me. 
You can at least try. I tell you you must try ! Here, 
take a sip of brandy, and see if that won’t put a bit of 
courage into you. Hallo !” as a burst of applause and 
the thud of a horse’s hoofs down the passage to the 
stables came rolling in, “there’s your wife’s turn over 
at last ; and there — listen ! the ringmaster is announc- 
ing yours. Get up, man ; get up and go out.” 

“I can’t, senor, I can’t ! I can’t !” 

“But I tell you you must.” 

355 


THE BOY SCOUTS BOOK OF STORIES 

And just here an interruption came. 

“Bad advice, my dear captain,” said a voice, Cleek’s 
voice, from the other end of the tent; and with a twist 
and a snarl the “senor” screwed round on his heel in 
time to see that other intruders were putting in an 
appearance as well as this unwelcome one. 

“Who the deuce asked you for your opinion?” 
rapped out the “senor” savagely. “And what are you 
doing in here, anyhow? If we want the service of a 
vet., we’re quite capable of getting one for ourselves 
without having him shove his presence upon us un- 
asked.” 

“You are quite capable of doing a great many 
things, my dear captain, even making lions smile!” 
said Cleek serenely. “It would appear that the gal- 
lant Captain von Gossler, nephew, and, in the absence 
of one who has a better claim, heir to the late Baron 

von Steinheid That’s it, nab the beggar. Played, 

sir, played! Hustle him out and into the cab, with 
his precious confederate, the Irish-Italian ‘signor,’ and 
make a clean sweep of the pair of them. You’ll find 
it a neck-stretching game, captain, I’m afraid, when 
the jury comes to hear of that poor boy’s death and 
your beastly part in it.” 

By this time the tent was in an uproar, for the chev- 
alier’s wife had come hurrying in, the chevalier’s 
daughter was on the verge of hysterics, and the chev- 
alier’s prospective son-in-law was alternately hugging 
the great beast-tamer and then shaking his hand and 

356 


THE LION’S SMILE 


generally deporting himself like a respectable young 
man who had suddenly gone daft. 

“Governor !” he cried, half laughing, half sobbing. 
“Bully old governor. It’s over — it’s over. Never 
any more danger, never any more bad times, never any 
more lion’s smiles.” 

“No, never,” said Cleek. “Come here, Madame 
Pullaine, and hear the good news with the rest. You 
married for love, and you’ve proved a brick. The 
dream’s come true, and the life of ease and of luxury 
is yours at last, Mr. Pullaine.” 

“But, sir, I — I do not understand,” stammered the 
chevalier. “What has happened? Why have (you 
arrested the Senor Sperati? What has he done? I 
cannot comprehend.” 

“Can’t you? Well, it so happens, chevalier, that 
the Baron von Steinheid died something like two 
months ago, leaving the sum of sixty thousand pounds 
sterling to one Peter Janssen Pullaine and the heirs 
of his body, and that a certain Captain von Gossler, 
son of the baron’s only sister, meant to make sure that 
there was no Peter Janssen Pullaine and no heirs of 
his body to inherit one farthing of it.” 

“Sir! Dear God, can this be true?” 

“Perfectly true, chevalier. The late baron’s solici- 
tors have been advertising for some time for news re- 
garding the whereabouts of Peter Janssen Pullaine, 
and if you had not so successfully hidden your real 
name under that of your professional one, no doubt 
357 


THE BOY SCOUTS BOOK OF STORIES 


some of your colleagues would have put you in the 
way of finding it out long ago. The baron did not go 
back on his word and did not act ungratefully. His 
will, dated twenty-nine years ago, was never altered 
in a single particular. I rather suspect that that letter 
and that gift of money which came to you in the name 
of his steward, and was supposed to close the affair 
entirely, was the work of his nephew, the gentleman 
whose exit has just been made. A crafty individual 
that, chevalier, and he laid his plans cleverly and well. 
Who would be likely to connect him with the death of 
a beast-tamer in a circus, who had perished in what 
would appear an accident of his calling? Ah, yes, the 
lion's smile was a clever idea. He was a sharp rascal 
to think of it.” 

“Sir! You — you do not mean to tell me that he 
caused that ? He never went near the beast — never — 
even once.” 

“Not necessary, chevalier. He kept near you and 
your children ; that was all that he needed to do to carry 
out his plan. The lion was as much his victim as any- 
body else. What it did it could not help doing. The 
very simplicity of the plan was its passport to suc- 
cess. All that was required was the unsuspected sift- 
ing of snuff on the hair of the person whose head was 
to be put in the beast's mouth. The lion's smile was 
not, properly speaking, a smile at all, chevalier; it 
was the torture which came of snuff getting into its 
35.8 


THE LION’S SMILE 


nostrils, and when the beast made that uncanny noise 
and snapped its jaws together, it was simply the out- 
come of a sneeze. The thing would be farcical if it 
were not that tragedy hangs on the thread of it, and 
that a life, a useful human life, was destroyed by 
means of it. Yes, it was clever, it was diabolically 
clever; but you know what Bobby Burns says about 
the best-laid schemes of mice and men. There’s 
always a Power higher up that works the ruin of 
them.” 

With that he walked by and, going to young Scar- 
melli, put out his hand. 

“You’re a good chap and you’ve got a good girl, so 
I expect you will be happy,” he said ; and then lowered 
his voice so that the rest might not reach the chevalier’s 
ears. “You were wrong to suspect the little step- 
mother,” he added. “She’s true blue, Scarmelli. She 
was only playing up to those fellows because she was 
afraid the ‘senor’ would drop out and close the show 
if she didn’t, and that she and her husband and the 
children would be thrown out of work. She loves her 
husband — that’s certain — and she’s a good little 
woman; and, Scarmelli?” 

“Yes, Mr. Cleek?” 

“There’s nothing better than a good woman on this 
earth, my lad. Always remember that. I think you, 
too, have got one. I hope you have. I hope you will 
be happy. What’s that? Owe me? Not a rap, my 
359 


THE BOY SCOUTS BOOK OF STORIES 


boy. Or, if you feel that you must give me some- 
thing, give me your prayers for equal luck when my 
time comes, and send me a slice of the wedding cake. 
The riddle’s solved, old chap. Good-night!” 



XVD.— The Roll-Call of The Reef * 

By A. T. Quiller-C ouch 

Y ES, sir,” said my host, the quarryman, reach- 
ing down the relics from their hook in the 
wall over the chimney-piece; “they’ve hung 
there all my time, and most of my father’s. The 
women won’t touch ’em; they’re afraid of the story. 
So here they’ll dangle, and gather dust and smoke, 
till another tenant comes and tosses ’em out o’ doors 
for rubbish. Whew! ’tis coarse weather, surely.” 

He went to the door, opened it, and stood studying 
the gale that beat upon his cottage-front, straight 
from the Manacle Reef. The rain drove past him 

* Reprinted by special permission from “Great Ghost Stories.” 
Copyright, 1918, by Dodd, Mead and Company. 

361 


THE BOY SCOUTS BOOK OF STORIES 

into the kitchen, aslant like threads of gold silk in 
the shine of the wreck-wood fire. Meanwhile, by the 
same firelight, I examined the relics on my knee. The 
metal of each was tarnished out of knowledge. But 
the trumpet was evidently an old cavalry trumpet, and 
the threads of its parti-colored sling, though fretted 
and dusty, still hung together. Around the side- 
drum, beneath its cracked brown varnish, I could 
hardly trace a royal coat-of-arms and a legend run- 
ning, <( Per Mare Per Terrain” — the motto of the ma- 
rines. Its parchment, though black and scented with 
woodsmoke, was limp and mildewed; and I began to 
tighten up the straps — under which the drumsticks had 
been loosely thrust — with the idle purpose of seeing 
if some music might be got out of the old drum yet. 

But as I turned it on my knee, I found the drum 
attached to the trumpet-sling by a curious barrel- 
shaped padlock, and paused to examine this. The 
body of the lock was composed of half a dozen brass 
rings, set accurately edge to edge; and, rubbing the 
brass with my thumb, I saw that each of the six had 
a series of letters engraved around it. 

I knew the trick of it, I thought. Here was one 
of those word padlocks, once so common; only to be 
opened by getting the rings to spell a certain word, 
which the dealer confides to you. 

My host shut and barred the door, and came back 
to the hearth. 

“ ’Twas just such a wind — east by south — that 
362 


THE ROLL-CALL OF THE REEF 


brought in what you've got between your hands. Back 
in the year 'nine, it was; my father has told me the 
tale a score o' times. You're twisting round the rings, 
I see. But you’ll never guess the word. Parson 
Kendall, he made the word, and he locked down a 
couple o' ghosts in their graves with it ; and when his 
time came he went to his own grave and took the word 
with him." 

“Whose ghosts, Matthew ?" 

“You want the story, I see, sir. My father could 
tell it better than I can. He was a young man in the 
year 'nine, unmarried at the time, and living in this 
very cottage, just as I be. That’s how he came to 
get mixed up with the tale." 

He took a chair, lighted a short pipe, and went on, 
with his eyes fixed on the dancing violet flames : 

“Yes, he’d ha’ been about thirty year old in Janu- 
ary, eighteen 'nine. The storm got up in the night 
o' the twenty-first o' that month. My father was 
dressed and out long before daylight; he never was 
one to bide in bed, let be that the gale by this time 
was pretty near lifting the thatch over his head. Be- 
sides which, he'd fenced a small 'taty-patch that win- 
ter, down by Lowland Point, and he wanted to see if 
it stood the night’s work. He took the path across 
Gunner’s Meadow — where they buried most of the 
bodies afterward. The wind was right in his teeth 
at the time, and once on the way (he's told me this 
often) a great strip of oarweed came flying through 

363 


THE BOY SCOUTS BOOK OF STORIES 


the darkness and fetched him a slap on the cheek like 
a cold hand. He made shift pretty well till he got 
to Lowland, and then had to drop upon hands and 
knees and crawl, digging his fingers every now and 
then into a shingle to hold on, for he declared to me 
that the stones, some of them as big as a man's head, 
kept rolling and driving past till it seemed the whole 
foreshore was moving westward under him. The 
fence was gone, of course; not a stick left to show 
where it stood; so that, when first he came to the 
place, he thought he must have missed his bearings. 
My father, sir, was a very religious man; and if he 
reckoned the end of the world was at hand — there in 
the great wind and night, among the moving stones 
— you may believe he was certain of it when he heard 
a gun fired, and, with the same, saw a flame shoot up 
out of the darkness to windward, making a sudden 
fierce light in all the place about. All he could find 
to think or say was, ‘The Second Coming! The Sec- 
ond Coming! The Bridegroom cometh, and the 
wicked He will toss like a ball into a large country'; 
and being already upon his knees, he just bowed his 
head and ’bided, saying this over and over. 

“But by’m by, between two squalls, he made bold 
to lift his head and look, and then by the light — a 
bluish color ’twas — he saw all the coast clear away 
to Manacle Point, and off the Manacles in the thick 
of the weather, a sloop-of-war with topgallants housed, 
driving stern foremost toward the reef. It was she, 

364 


THE ROLL-CALL OF THE REEF 


of course, that was burning the fire. My father could 
see the white streak and the ports of her quite plain 
as she rose to it, a little outside the breakers, and he 
guessed easy enough that her captain had just man- 
aged to wear ship and was trying to force her nose 
to the sea with the help of her small bower anchor 
and the scrap or two of canvas that hadn’t yet been 
blown out of her. But while he looked, she fell off, 
giving her broadside to it, foot by foot, and drifting 
back on the breakers around Carn Du and the Varses. 
The rocks lie so thick thereabout that ’twas a toss up 
which she struck first ; at any rate, my father couldn’t 
tell at the time, for just then the flare died down and 
went out. 

“Well, sir, he turned then in the dark and started 
back for Coverack to cry the dismal tidings — though 
well knowing ship and crew to be past any hope, and 
as he turned the wind lifted him and tossed him for- 
ward 'like a ball,’ as he’d been saying, and homeward 
along the foreshore. As you know, ’tis ugly work, 
even by daylight, picking your way among the stones 
there, and my father was prettily knocked about at 
first in the dark. But by this ’twas nearer seven than 
six o’clock, and the day spreading. By the time he 
reached North Corner, a man could see to read print; 
hows’ever, he looked neither out to sea nor toward 
Coverack, but headed straight for the first cottage — 
the same that stands above North Corner to-day. A 
man named Billy Ede lived there then, and when my 

365 


THE BOY SCOUTS BOOK OF STORIES 


father burst into the kitchen bawling, ‘Wreck! 
wreck!’ he saw Billy Ede’s wife, Ann, standing there 
in her clogs with a shawl over her head, and her 
clothes wringing wet. 

“ ‘Save the chap/ says Billy Ede’s wife, Ann. 
‘What d’ee mean by crying stale fish at that rate?’ 

“ ‘But ’tis a wreck, I tell ’e/ 

“ Tv a-zeed’n, too ; and so has every one with an 
eye in his head/ 

“And with that she pointed straight over my 
father’s shoulder, and he turned; and there, close un- 
der Dolor Point, at the end of Coverack town he saw 
another wreck washing, and the point black with peo- 
ple, like emmets, running to and fro in the morning 
light. While he stood staring at her, he heard a 
trumpet sounded on board, the notes coming in little 
jerks, like a bird rising against the wind; but faintly, 
of course, because of the distance and the gale blow- 
ing — though this had dropped a little. 

“ ‘She’s a transport,’ said Billy Ede’s wife, Ann, 
‘and full of horse-soldiers, fine long men. When she 
struck they must ha’ pitched the horses over first to 
lighten the ship, for a score of dead horses had washed 
in afore I left, half an hour back. An’ three or four 
soldiers, too — fine long corpses in white breeches and 
jackets of blue and gold. I held the lantern to one. 
Such a straight young man.’ 

“My father asked her about the trumpeting. 

“ ‘That’s the queerest bit of all. She was burnin’ 

366 


THE ROLL-CALL OF THE REEF 

a light when me an’ my man joined the crowd down 
there. All her masts had gone; whether they carried 
away, or were cut away to ease her, I don’t rightly 
know. Her keelson was broke under her and her 
bottom sagged and stove, and she had just settled 
down like a setting hen — just the leastest list to star- 
board; but a man could stand there easy. They had 
rigged up ropes across her, from bulwark to bulwark, 
an’ beside these the men were mustered, holding on 
like grim death whenever the sea made a clean breach 
over them, an’ standing up like heroes as soon as it 
passed. The captain an’ the officers were clinging to 
the rail of the quarter-deck, all in their golden uni- 
forms, waiting for the end as if ’twas King George 
they expected. There was no way to help, for she 
lay right beyond cast of line, though our folk tried 
it fifty times. And beside them clung a trumpeter, 
a whacking big man, an’ between the heavy seas he 
would lift his trumpet with one hand, and blow a call; 
and every time he blew the men gave a cheer. There 
(she says) — hark ’ee now — there he goes agen! But 
you won’t hear no cheering any more, for few are left 
to cheer, and their voices weak. Bitter cold the wind 
is, and I reckon it numbs their grip o’ the ropes, for 
they were dropping off fast with every sea when my 
man sent me home to get his breakfast. Another 
wreck, you say? Well, there’s no hope for the ten- 
der dears if ’tis the Manacles. You’d better run 
down and help yonder ; though ’tis little help any man 

367 


THE BOY SCOUTS BOOK OF STORIES 

can give. Not one came in alive while I was there. 
The tide’s flowing, an’ she won’t hold together an- 
other hour, they say.’ 

‘‘Well, sure enough, the end was coming fast when 
my father got down to the Point. Six men had been 
cast up alive, or just breathing — a seaman and five 
troopers. The seaman was the only one that had 
breath to speak; and while they were carrying him 
into the town, the word went round that the ship’s 
name was the ‘Despatch,’ transport, homeward bound 
from Corunna, with a detachment of the Seventh 
Hussars, that had been fighting out there with Sir 
John Moore. The seas had rolled her further over 
by this time, and given her decks a pretty sharp slope ; 
but a dozen men still hefd on, seven by the ropes near 
the ship’s waist, a couple near the break of the poop, 
and three on the quarter-deck. Of these three my 
father made out one to be the skipper; close to him 
clung an officer in full regimentals — his name, they 
heard after, was Captain Duncanfield; and last came 
the tall trumpeter; and if you’ll believe me, the fellow 
was making shift there, at the very last, to blow ‘God 
Save the King.’ What’s more, he got to ‘Send us 
victorious,’ before an extra big sea came bursting 
across and washed them off the deck — every man but 
one of the pair beneath the poop — and he dropped his 
hold before the next wave; being stunned, I reckon. 
The others went out of sight at once, but the trumpeter 
— being, as I said, a powerful man as well as a tough 
368 


THE ROLL-CALL OF THE REEF 

swimmer — rose like a duck, rode out a couple of 
breakers, and came in on the crest of the third. The 
folks looked to see him broke like an egg at their very 
feet; but when the smother cleared, there he was, ly- 
ing face downward on a ledge below them; and one 
of the men that happened to have a rope round him 
— I forget the fellow's name, if I ever heard it — 
jumped down and grabbed him by the ankle as he be- 
gan to slip back. Before the next big sea, the pair 
were hauled high enough to be out of harm, and an- 
other heave brought them up to grass. Quick work, 
but master trumpeter wasn’t quite dead ; nothing worse 
than a cracked head and three staved ribs. In twenty 
minutes or so they had him in bed, with the doctor 
to tend him. 

“Now was the time — nothing being left alive upon 
the transport — for my father to tell of the sloop he’d 
seen driving upon the Manacles. And when he got a 
hearing, though the most were set upon salvage, and 
believed a wreck in the hand, so to say, to be worth 
half a dozen they couldn’t see, a good few volunteered 
to start off with him and have a look. They crossed 
Lowland Point; no ship to be seen on the Manacles 
nor anywhere upon the sea. One or two was for call- 
ing my father a liar. ‘Wait till we come to Dean 
Point,’ said he. Sure enough, on the far side of Dean 
Point they found the sloop’s mainmast washing about 
with half a dozen men lashed to it, men in red jack- 
ets, every mother’s son drowned and staring; and a 

369 


THE BOY SCOUTS BOOK OF STORIES 


little further on, just under the Dean, three or four 
bodies cast up on the shore, one of them a small drum- 
mer-boy, side-drum and all ; and nearby part of a ship’s 
gig, with ‘H.M.S. Primrose’ cut on the sternboard. 
From this point on the shore was littered thick with 
wreckage and dead bodies — the most of them marines 
in uniform — and in Godrevy Cove, in particular, a 
heap of furniture from the captain’s cabin, and among 
it a water-tight box, not much damaged, and full of 
papers, by which, when it came to be examined, next 
day, the wreck was easily made out to be the ‘Primrose’ 
of eighteen guns, outward bound from Portsmouth, 
with a fleet of transports for the Spanish war — thirty 
sail, I’ve heard, but I’ve never heard what became of 
them. Being handled by merchant skippers, no doubt 
they rode out the gale, and reached the Tagus safe 
and sound. Not but what the captain of the ‘Prim- 
rose’ — Mein was his name — did quite right to try and 
club-haul his vessel when he found himself under the 
land; only he never ought to have got there, if he 
took proper soundings. But it’s easy talking. 

“The ‘Primrose,’ sir, was a handsome vessel — for her 
size one of the handsomest in the King’s service — 
and newly fitted out at Plymouth Dock. So the boys 
had brave pickings from her in the way of brass-work, 
ship’s instruments, and the like, let alone some barrels 
of stores not much spoiled. They loaded themselves 
with as much as they could carry, and started for 
home, meaning to make a second journey before the 
370 


THE ROLL-CALL OF THE REEF 


preventive men got wind of their doings, and came 
to spoil the fun. ‘Hullo !’ says my father, and dropped 
his gear, ‘I do believe there’s a leg moving!’ and run- 
ning fore, he stooped over the small drummer-boy 
that I told you about. The poor little chap was lying 
there, with his face a mass of bruises, and his eyes 
closed; but he had shifted one leg an inch or two, and 
was still breathing. So my father pulled out a knife, 
and cut him free from his drum — that was lashed on 
to him with a double turn of Manila rope — and took 
him up and carried him along here to this very room 
that we’re sitting in. He lost a good deal by this; 
for when he went back to fetch the bundle he’d 
dropped, the preventive men had got hold of it, and 
were thick as thieves along the foreshore; so that 
’twas only by paying one or two to look the other way 
that he picked up anything worth carrying off; which 
you’ll allow to be hard, seeing that he was the first 
man to give news of the wreck. 

“Well, the inquiry was held, of course, and my 
father gave evidence, and for the rest they had to 
trust to the sloop’s papers, for not a soul was saved 
besides the drummer-boy, and he was raving in a fever, 
brought on by the cold and the fright. And the sea- 
man and the five troopers gave evidence about the loss 
of the ‘Despatch.’ The tall trumpeter, too, whose ribs 
were healing, came forward and kissed the book; but 
somehow his head had been hurt in coming ashore, 
and he talked foolish-like, and ’twas easy seen he 
371 


THE BOY SCOUTS BOOK OF STORIES 


would never be a proper man again. The others were 
taken up to Plymouth, and so went their ways; but 
the trumpeter stayed on in Coverack ; and King 
George, finding he was fit for nothing, sent him down 
a trifle of a pension after a while — enough to keep him 
in board and lodging, with a bit of tobacco over. 

“Now the first time that this man — William Tal- 
lifer he called himself — met with the drummer-boy, 
was about a fortnight after the little chap had bet- 
tered enough to be allowed a short walk out of doors, 
which he took, if you please, in full regimentals. 
There never was a soldier so proud of his dress. His 
own suit had shrunk a brave bit with the salt water; 
but into ordinary frock an’ corduroy he declared he 
would not get, not if he had to go naked the rest of 
his life; so my father — being a good-natured man, 
and handy with the needle — turned to and repaired 
damages with a piece or two of scarlet cloth cut from 
the jacket of one of the drowned Marines. Well, the 
poor little chap chanced to be standing, in this rig out, 
down by the gate of Gunner’s Meadow, where they 
had buried two score and over of his comrades. The 
morning was a fine one, early in March month; and 
along came the cracked trumpeter, likewise taking a 
stroll. 

“‘Hullo!’ says he; ‘good mornin’! And what 
might you be doin’ here ?’ 

“ ‘I was a-wishin’,’ says the boy, ‘I had a pair o’ 
drumsticks. Our lads were buried yonder without so 

37 2 


THE ROLL-CALL OF THE REEF 


much as a drum tapped or a musket fired; and that’s 
not Christian burial for British soldiers/ 

“ ‘Phut !’ says the trumpeter, and spat on the 
ground; ‘a parcel of Marines!’ 

“The boy eyed him a second or so, and answered 
up: ‘If I’d a tav of turf handy, I’d bung it at your 
mouth, you greasy cavalryman, and learn you to speak 
respectful of your betters. The Marines are the 
handiest body o’ men in the service.’ 

“The trumpeter looked down on him from the 
height of six-foot-two, and asked: ‘Did they die 
well ?’ 

“ ‘They died very well. There was a lot of running 
to and fro at first, and some of the men began to cry, 
and a few to strip off their clothes. But when the ship 
fell off for the last time, Captain Mein turned and 
said something to Major Griffiths, the commanding 
officer on board, and the Major called out to me to 
beat to quarters. It might have been for a wedding, 
he sang it out so cheerful. We’d had word already 
that ’twas to be parade order; and the men fell in as 
trim and decent as if they were going to church. One 
or two even tried to shave at the last moment. The 
Major wore his medals. One of the seamen, seeing 
I had work to keep the drum steady — the sling being a 
bit loose for me, and the wind what you remember — 
lashed it tight with a piece of rope; and that saved 
my life afterward, a drum being as good as cork until 
it’s stove. I kept beating away until every man was 

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THE BOY SCOUTS BOOK OF STORIES 


on deck— -and then the Major formed them up and 
told them to die like British soldiers, and the chap- 
lain was in the middle of a prayer when she struck. 
In ten minutes she was gone. That was how they 
died, cavalryman/ 

“ ‘And that was very well done, drummer of the 
Marines. What’s your name ?’ 

“ ‘John Christian.’ 

“ ‘Mine’s William George Tallifer, trumpeter of 
the Seventh Light Dragoons — the Queen’s Own. I 
played “God Save the King” while our men were 
drowning. Captain Duncanfield told me to sound a 
call or two, to put them in heart; but that matter of 
“God Save the King” was a notion of my own. I 
won’t say anything to hurt the feelings of a Marine, 
even if he’s not much over five-foot tall; but the 
Queen’s Own Hussars is a tearin’ fine regiment. As 
between horse and foot, ’tis a question o’ which gets 
a chance. All the way from Sahagun to Corunna 
’twas we that took and gave the knocks — at Mayorga 
and Rueda, and Bennyventy.’ — The reason, sir, I can 
speak the names so pat, is that my father learnt them 
by heart afterward from the trumpeter, who was al- 
ways talking about Mayorga and Rueda and Benny- 
venty. — ‘We made the rear-guard, after General 
Paget; and drove the French every time; and all the 
infantry did was to sit about in wine-shops till we 
whipped ’em out, an’ steal an’ straggle an’ play the 
tom-fool in general. And when it came to a stand- 
374 


THE ROLL-CALL OF THE REEF 


up fight at Corunna, ’twas we that had to stay seasick 
aboard the transports, an’ watch the infantry in the 
thick o’ the caper. Very well they behaved, too — 
’specially the Fourth Regiment, an’ the Forty-Second 
Highlanders and the Dirty Half-Hundred. Oh, ay; 
they’re decent regiments, all three. But the Queen’s 
Own Hussars is a tearin’ fine regiment. So you 
played on your drum when the ship was goin’ down? 
Drummer John Christian, I’ll have to get you a new 
pair of sticks.’ 

“The very next day the trumpeter marched into 
Helston, and got a carpenter there to turn him a pair 
of box-wood drumsticks for the boy. And this was the 
beginning of one of the most curious friendships you 
ever heard tell of. Nothing delighted the pair more 
than to borrow a boat off my father and pull out to the 
rocks where the ‘Primrose’ and the ‘Despatch’ had 
struck and sunk ; and on still days ’twas pretty to hear 
them out there off the Manacles, the drummer play- 
ing his tattoo — for they always took their music with 
them — and the trumpeter practicing calls, and making 
his trumpet speak like an angel. But if the weather 
turned roughish, they’d be walking together and talk- 
ing; leastwise the youngster listened while the other 
discoursed about Sir John’s campaign in Spain and 
Portugal, telling how each little skirmish befell; and 
of Sir John himself, and General Baird, and General 
Paget, and Colonel Vivian, his own commanding offi- 
cer, and what kind of men they were; and of the last 
375 


THE BOY SCOUTS BOOK OF STORIES 


bloody stand-up at Corunna, and so forth, as if neither 
could have enough. 

“But all this had to come to an end in the late sum- 
mer, for the boy, John Christian, being now well 
and strong again, must go up to Plymouth to report 
himself. ’Twas his own wish (for I believe King 
George had forgotten all about him), but his friend 
wouldn’t hold him back. As for the trumpeter, my 
father had made an arrangement to take him on as 
lodger, as soon as the boy left; and on the morning 
fixed for the start, he was up at the door here by five 
o’clock, with his trumpet slung by his side, and all the 
rest of his belongings in a small valise. A Monday 
morning it was, and after breakfast he had fixed to 
walk with the boy some way on the road toward 
Helston, where the coach started. My father left 
them at breakfast together, and went out to meat the 
pig, and do a few odd morning jobs of that sort. 
When he came back, the boy was still at table, and 
the trumpeter sat with the rings in his hands, hitched 
together just as they be at this moment. 

“ ‘Look at this,’ he says to my father, showing him 
the lock. ‘I picked it up off a starving brass-worker 
in Lisbon, and it is not one of your common locks 
that one word of six letters will open at any time. 
There’s janius in this lock; for you’ve only to make 
the rings spell any six-letter word you please and snap 
down the lock upon that, and never a soul can open it 
— not the maker, even — until somebody comes along 

376 


THE ROLL-CALL OF THE REEF 


that knows the word you snapped it on. Now Johnny 
here’s goin’, and he leaves his drum behind him ; for, 
though he can make pretty music on it, the parch- 
ment sags in wet weather, by reason of the sea- water 
gettin’ at it; an’ if he carries it to Plymouth, they’ll 
only condemn it and give him another. And, as for 
me, I shan’t have the heart to put lip to the trumpet 
any more when Johnny’s gone. So we’ve chosen a 
word together, and locked ’em together upon that ; and, 
by your leave, I’ll hang ’em here together on the hook 
over your fireplace. Maybe Johnny’ll come back; 
maybe not. Maybe, if he comes, I’ll be dead an’ gone, 
an’ he’ll take ’em apart an’ try their music for old 
sake’s sake. But if he never comes, nobody can sepa- 
rate ’em; for nobody beside knows the word. And if 
you marry and have sons, you can tell ’em that here 
are tied together the souls of Johnny Christian, drum- 
mer of the Marines, and William George Tallifer, 
once trumpeter of the Queen’s Own Hussars. Amen.’ 

“With that he hung the two instruments ’pon the 
hook there; and the boy stood up and thanked my 
father and shook hands ; and the pair went out of the 
door, toward Helston. 

“Somewhere on the road they took leave of one 
another ; but nobody saw the parting, nor heard what 
was said between them. About three in the afternoon 
the trumpeter came walking back over the hill ; and by 
the time my father came home from the fishing, the 
cottage was tidied up, and the tea ready, and the whole 
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THE BOY SCOUTS BOOK OF STORIES 


place shining like a new pin. From that time for five 
years he lodged here with my father, looking after the 
house and tilling the garden. And all the time he was 
steadily failing; the hurt in his head spreading, in a 
manner, to his limbs. My father watched the feeble- 
ness growing on him, but said nothing. And from 
first to last neither spake a word about the drummer, 
John Christian; nor did any letter reach them, nor 
word of his doings. 

“The rest of the tale you’re free to believe, sir, or 
not, as you please. It stands upon my father’s words, 
and he always declared he was ready to kiss the Book 
upon it, before judge and jury. He said, too, that 
he never had the wit to make up such a yarn, and 
he defied any one to explain about the lock, in par- 
ticular, by any other tale. But you shall judge for 
yourself. 

“My father said that about three o’clock in the 
morning, April fourteenth, of the year ’fourteen, he 
and William Tallifer were sitting here, just as you 
and I, sir, are sitting now. My father had put on 
his clothes a few minutes before, and was mending his 
spiller by the light of the horn lantern, meaning to 
set off before daylight to haul the trammel. The 
trumpeter hadn’t been to bed at all. Toward the last 
he mostly spent his nights (and his days, too) dozing 
in the elbow-chair where you sit at this minute. He 
was dozing then (my father said) with his chin 
dropped forward on his chest, when a knock sounded 

37s 


THE ROLL-CALL OF THE REEF 

upon the door, and the door opened, and in walked 
an upright young man in scarlet regimentals. 

“He had grown a brave bit, and his face the col- 
or of wood-ashes; but it was the drummer, John 
Christian. Only his uniform was different from the 
one he used to wear, and the figures '38’ shone in brass 
upon his collar. 

“The drummer walked past my father as if he never 
saw him, and stood by the elbow-chair and said: 

“ Trumpeter, trumpeter, are you one with me?’ 

“And the trumpeter just lifted the lids of his eyes, 
and answered : 'How should I not be one with you, 
drummer Johnny — Johnny boy ? If you come, I count ; 
if you march, I mark time; until the discharge comes.’ 

“ The discharge has come to-night,’ said the drum- 
mer; 'and the word is Corunna no longer.’ And step- 
ping to the chimney-place, he unhooked the drum and 
trumpet, and began to twist the brass rings of the lock, 
spelling the word aloud, so — 'C-O-R-U-N-A.’ When 
he had fixed the last letter, the padlock opened in his 
hand. 

“ 'Did you know, trumpeter, that, when I came to 
Plymouth, they put me into a line regiment?’ 

“ 'The 38th is a good regiment,’ answered the old 
Hussar, still in his dull voice; 'I went back with them 
from Sahagun to Corunna. At Corunna they stood 
in General Fraser’s division, on the right. They be- 
haved well.’ 

“ ‘But I’d fain see the Marines again,’ says the 
379 


THE BOY SCOUTS BOOK OF STORIES 


drummer, handing him the trumpet; ‘and you, you 
shall call once more for the Queen's Own. Matthew,' 
he says, suddenly, turning on my father — and when 
he turned, my father saw for the first time that his 
scarlet jacket had a round hole by the breast-bone, and 
that the blood was welling there — ‘Matthew, we shall 
want your boat.' 

“Then my father rose on his legs like a man in a 
dream, while the two slung on, the one his drum, and 
t’other his trumpet. He took the lantern and went 
quaking before them down to the shore, and they 
breathed heavily behind him; and they stepped into 
his boat, and my father pushed off. 

“ ‘Row you first for Dolor Point,' says the drum- 
mer. So my father rowed them past the white houses 
of Coverack to Dolor Point, and there, at a word, lay 
on his oars. And the trumpeter, William Tallifer, 
put his trumpet to his mouth and sounded the reveille. 
The music of it was like rivers running. 

“ ‘They will follow,' said the drummer. ‘Matthew, 
pull you now for the Manacles.' 

“So my father pulled for the Manacles, and came 
to an easy close outside Carn Du. And the drummer 
took his sticks and beat a tattoo, there by the edge of 
the reef ; and the music of it was like a rolling chariot. 

“ ‘That will do,' says he, breaking off ; ‘they will 
follow. Pull now for the shore under Gunner's 
Meadow.' 

“Then my father pulled for the shore and ran his 
380 


THE ROLL-CALL OF THE REEF 


boat in under Gunner’s Meadow. And they stepped 
out, all three, and walked up to the meadow. By the 
gate the drummer halted, and began his tattoo again, 
looking outward the darkness over the sea. 

“And while the drum beat, and my father held his 
breath, there came up out of the sea and the darkness 
a troop of many men, horse and foot, and formed up 
among the graves; and others rose out of the graves 
and formed up — drowned Marines with bleached faces, 
and pale Hussars, riding their horses, all lean and 
shadowy. There was no clatter of hoofs or accouter- 
ments, my father said, but a soft sound all the while 
like the beating of a bird’s wing; and a black shadow 
lay like a pool about the feet of all. The drummer 
stood upon a little knoll just inside the gate, and beside 
him the tall trumpeter, with hand on hip, watching 
them gather; and behind them both, my father, cling- 
ing to the gate. When no more came, the drummer 
stopped playing, and said, ‘Call the roll.’ 

“Then the trumpeter stepped toward the end man 
of the rank and called, ‘Troop Sergeant-Major 
Thomas Irons,’ and the man answered in a thin voice, 
‘Here.’ 

“ ‘Troop Sergeant-Major Thomas Irons, how is it 
with you?’ 

“The man answered, ‘How should it be with me? 
When I was young, I betrayed a girl ; and when I was 
grown, I betrayed a friend, and for these I must pay. 
But I died as a man ought. God save the King !’ 

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THE BOY SCOUTS BOOK OF STORIES 


‘The trumpeter called to the next man, Trooper 
Henry Buckingham/ and the next man answered, 
‘Here/ 

“ Trooper Henry Buckingham, how it is with you?’ 

“ ‘How should it be with me ? I was a drunkard, 
and I stole, and in Lugo, in a wine-shop, I killed a 
man. But I died as a man should. God save the 
King!’ 

“So the trumpeter went down the line; and when 
he had finished, the drummer took it up, hailing the 
dead Marines in their order. Each man answered to 
his name, and each man ended with ‘God save the 
King!’ When all were hailed, the drummer stepped 
backward to his mound, and called: 

“ ‘It is well. You are content, and we are content 
to join you. Wait, now, a little while.’ 

“With this he turned and ordered my father to pick 
up the lantern, and lead the way back. As my father 
picked it up, he heard the ranks of the dead men cheer 
and call, ‘God save the King!’ all together, and saw 
them waver and fade back into the dark, like a breath 
fading off a pane. 

“But when they came back here to the kitchen, and 
my father set the lantern down, it seemed they’d both 
forgot about him. For the drummer turned in the 
lantern-light — and my father could see the blood still 
welling out of the hole in his breast — and took the 
trumpet-sling from around the other’s neck, and locked 
drum and trumpet together again, choosing the letters 
382 


THE ROLL-CALL OF THE REEF 


on the lock very carefully. While he did this, he said : 

“ ‘The word is no more Corunna, but Bayonne. As 
you left out an “n” in Corunna, so must I leave out 
an “n” in Bayonne/ And before snapping the pad- 
lock, he spelt out the word slowly — ‘B-A-Y-O-N-E.’ 
After that, he used no more speech; but turned and 
hung the two instruments back on the hook ; and then 
took the trumpeter by the arm; and the pair walked 
out into the darkness, glancing neither to right nor 
left. 

“My father was on the point of following, when he 
heard a sort of sigh behind him ; and there, sitting in 
the elbow-chair, was the very trumpeter he had just 
seen walk out by the door! If my fathers heart 
jumped before, you may believe it jumped quicker 
now. But after a bit, he went up to the man asleep 
in the chair and put a hand upon him. It was the 
trumpeter in flesh and blood that he touched; but 
though the flesh was warm, the trumpeter was dead. 

“Well, sir, they buried him three days after; and 
at first my father was minded to say nothing about 
his dream (as he thought it). But the day after the 
funeral, he met Parson Kendall coming from Helston 
market : and the parson called out : ‘Have ’ee heard the 
news the coach brought down this mornin’?’ ‘What 
news?’ says my father. ‘Why, that peace is agreed 
upon/ ‘None too soon/ says my father. ‘Not soon 
enough for our poor lads at Bayonne/ the parson 
answered. ‘Bayonne!’ cries my father, with a jump. 

383 


THE BOY SCOUTS BOOK OF STORIES 


‘Why, yes/ and the parson told him all about a great 
sally the French had made on the night of April 13th. 
‘Do you happen to know if the 38th Regiment was 
engaged?’ my father asked. ‘Come, now,’ said Par- 
son Kendall, ‘I didn’t know you was so well up in the 
campaign. But, as it happens, I do know that the 
38th was engaged, for ’twas they that held a cottage 
and stopped the French advance/ 

“Still my father held his tongue; and when, a week 
later, he walked into Helston and bought a Mercury 
off the Sherborne rider, and got the landlord of the 
‘Angel’ to spell out the list of killed and wounded, 
sure enough, there among the killed was Drummer 
John Christian, of the 38th Foot. 

“After this there was nothing for a religious man 
but to make a clean breast. So my father went up to 
Parson Kendall, and told the whole story. The par- 
son listened, and put a question or two, and then 
asked : 

“ ‘Have you tried to open the lock since that night ?’ 

“ ‘I haven’t dared to touch it/ says my father. 

“ ‘Then come along and try.’ When the parson 
came to the cottage here, he took the things off the 
hook and tried the lock. ‘Did he say “Bayonne”? 
The word has seven letters.’ 

“ ‘Not if you spell it with one “n” as he did/ says 
my father. 

“The parson spelt it out — ‘B-A-Y-O-N-E.’ ‘Whew!’ 
says he, for the lock had fallen open in his hand. 

384 


THE ROLL-CALL OF THE REEF 


“He stood considering it a moment, and then he 
says : ‘I tell you what. I shouldn’t blab this all round 
the parish, if I was you. You won’t get no credit for 
truth-telling, and a miracle’s wasted on a set of fools. 
But if you like, I’ll shut down the lock again upon 
a holy word that no one but me shall know, and neither 
drummer nor trumpeter, dead or alive, shall frighten 
the secret out of me.’ 

“ ‘I wish to heaven you would, parson/ said my 
father. 

“The parson chose the holy word there and then, 
and shut the lock upon it, and hung the drum and 
trumpet back in their place. He is gone long since, 
taking the word with him. And till the lock is broken 
by force, nobody well ever separate those two.” 


XVIIL — The House and The Brain* 

By Lord Edzmrd Bulwer-Lytton 

A FRIEND of mine, who is a man of letters and 
a philosopher, said to me one day, as if be- 
tween jest and earnest: ‘‘Fancy! since we 
last met, I have discovered a haunted house in the 
midst of London.” 

“Really haunted? — and by what — ghosts?” 

“Well, I can’t answer that question; all I know is 
this: six weeks ago my wife and I were in search of 

* Reprinted by special permission from “Great Ghost Stories.” 
Copyright, 1918, by Dodd, Mead and Company. 

386 


THE HOUSE AND THE BRAIN 


a furnished apartment. Passing a quiet street, we 
saw on the window of one of the houses a bill, ‘Apart- 
ments, Furnished/ The situation suited us: we en- 
tered the house — liked the rooms — engaged them by 
the week — and left them the third day. No power on 
earth could have reconciled my wife to stay longer; 
and I don’t wonder at it.” 

“What did you see?” 

“It was not so much what we saw or heard that 
drove us away, as it was an undefinable terror which 
seized both of us whenever we passed by the door of 
a certain unfurnished room, in which we neither saw 
nor heard anything. Accordingly, on the fourth 
morning I summoned the woman who kept the house 
and attended on us, and told her that the rooms did not 
quite suit us, and we would not stay out our week. 
She said, dryly : ‘I know why ; you have stayed longer 
than any other lodger. Few ever stayed a second 
night; none before you a third. But I take it they 
have been very kind to you.’ 

“ ‘They — who ?’ I asked, affecting to smile. 

“ ‘Why, they who haunt the house, whoever they 
are. I don’t mind them ; I remember them many years 
ago, when I lived in this house, not as a servant ; but 
I know they will be the death of me some day. I 
don’t care — I’m old and must die soon anyhow; and 
then I shall be with them, and in this house still.’ The 
woman spoke with so dreary a calmness that really it 
was a sort of awe that prevented my conversing with 
3 8 7 


THE BOY SCOUTS BOOK OF STORIES 


her further. I paid for my week, and too happy 
were my wife and I to get off so cheaply. ,, 

“You excite my curiosity,” said I; “nothing I should 
like better than to sleep in a haunted house. Pray give 
me the address of the one which you left so ignomini- 
ously.” 

My friend gave me the address; and when we 
parted, I walked straight toward the house thus in- 
dicated. 

It is situated on the north side of Oxford Street, in 
a dull but respectable thoroughfare. I found the 
house shut up — no bill at the window, and no response 
to my knock. As I was turning away, a beer-boy, col- 
lecting pewter pots at the neighboring areas, said to 
me, “Do you want any one at that house, sir?” 

“Yes, I heard it was to be let.” 

“Let! — Mr. J. offered mother, who chars for him, 
a pound a week just to open and shut the windows, 
and she would not.” 

“Would not! — and why?” 

“The house is haunted ; and the old woman who kept 
it was found dead in her bed, with her eyes wide open. 
They say the devil strangled her.” 

“Pooh! — you speak of Mr. J . Is he the 

owner of the house ?” 

“Yes.” 

“Where does he live?” 

“In G Street, No. — ” 

I gave the pot-boy the gratuity earned by his liberal 

388 


THE HOUSE AND THE BRAIN 


information, and I was lucky enough to find Mr. 

J at home — an elderly man, with intelligent 

countenance and prepossessing manners. 

I communicated my name and my business frankly. 
I said I heard the house was considered to be haunted 
— that I had a strong desire to examine a house with 
so equivocal a reputation — that I should be greatly 
obliged if he would allow me to hire it, though only 
for a night. I was willing to pay for that privilege 
whatever he might be inclined to ask. “Sir,” said 

Mr. J , with great courtesy, “the house is at your 

service, for as short or as long a time as you please. 
Rent is out of the question. The poor old woman who 
died in it three weeks ago was a pauper whom I took 
out of a workhouse, for in her childhood she had been 
known to some of my family, and had once been in 
such good circumstances that she had rented that house 
of my uncle. She was a woman of superior education 
and strong mind, and was the only person I could ever 
induce to remain in the house. Indeed, since her 
death, which was sudden, and the coroner’s inquest 
which gave it a notoriety in the neighborhood, I have 
so despaired of finding any person to take charge of 
the house, much more a tenant, that I would willingly 
let it rent free for a year to any one who would pay its 
rates and taxes.” 

“How long is it since the house acquired this sinister 
character?” 

“That I can scarcely tell you, but very many years 

389 


THE BOY SCOUTS BOOK OF STORIES 


since. The old woman I spoke of said it was haunted 
when she rented it between thirty and forty years ago. 
I never had one lodger who stayed more than three 
days. I do not tell you their stories — to no two 
lodgers have there been exactly the same phenomena 
repeated. It is better that you should judge for your- 
self than enter the house with an imagination influ- 
enced by previous narratives; only be prepared to see 
and to hear something or other, and take whatever 
precautions you yourself please.” 

“Have you never had a curiosity yourself to pass a 
night in that house?” 

“Yes. I passed not a night, but three hours in 
broad daylight alone in that house. My curiosity is 
not satisfied, but it is quenched. I have no desire to 
renew the experiment. You can not complain, you 
see, sir, that I am not sufficiently candid; and unless 
your interest be exceedingly eager and your nerves 
unusually strong, I honestly add, that I advise you not 
to pass a night in that house.” 

“My interest is exceedingly keen,” said I, “and 
though only a coward will boast of his nerves in situa- 
tions wholly unfamiliar to him, yet my nerves have 
been seasoned in such variety of danger that I have 
the right to rely on them — even in a haunted house.” 

Mr. J said very little more; he took the keys 

of his house out of his bureau, gave them to me — and, 
thanking him cordially for his frankness, and his ur- 
bane concession to my wish, I carried off my prize. 
390 


THE HOUSE AND THE BRAIN 


Impatient for the experiment, as soon as I reached 
home, I summoned my confidential servant — a young 
man of gay spirits, fearless temper, and as free from 
superstitious prejudice as any one I could think of. 

“F ,” said I, “you remember in Germany how 

disappointed we were at not finding a ghost in that old 
castle, which was said to be haunted by a headless 
apparition? Well, I have heard of a house in London 
which, I have reason to hope, is decidedly haunted. I 
mean to sleep there to-night. From what I hear, there 
is no doubt that something will allow itself to be seen 
or to be heard — something, perhaps, excessively hor- 
rible. Do you think, if I take you with me, I may rely 
on your presence of mind, whatever may happen ?” 

“Oh, sir ! pray trust me,” answered F , grinning 

with delight. 

“Very well; then here are the keys of the house — 
this is the address. Go now — select for me any bed- 
room you please; and since the house has not been 
inhabited for weeks make up a good fire — air the bed 
well — see, of course, that there are candles as well as 
fuel. Take with you my revolver and my dagger — 
so much for my weapons — arm yourself equally well; 
and if we are not a match for a dozen ghosts we shall 
be but a sorry couple of Englishmen.” 

I was engaged for the rest of the day on business so 
urgent that I had not leisure to think much on the 
noctural adventure to which I had plighted my honor. 
I dined alone, and very late, and while dining, read, 
391 


THE BOY SCOUTS BOOK OF STORIES 

as is my habit. I selected one of the volumes of 
Macaulay's essays. I thought to myself that I would 
take the book with me; there was so much of health- 
fulness in the style and practical life in the subjects, 
that it would serve as an antidote against the influence 
of superstitious fancy. 

Accordingly, about half-past nine, I put the book 
into my pocket and strolled leisurely toward the 
haunted house. I took with me a favorite dog — an 
exceedingly sharp, bold, and vigilant bull-terrier — a 
dog fond of prowling about strange ghostly corners 
and passages at night in search of rats — a dog of dogs 
for a ghost. 

It was a summer night, but chilly, the sky somewhat 
gloomy and overcast. Still there was a moon — faint 
and sickly, but still a moon — and, if the clouds per- 
mitted, after midnight it would be brighter. 

I reached the house, knocked, and my servant opened 
the door with a cheerful smile. 

“All right, sir, and very comfortable. ,, 

“Oh!” said I, rather disappointed; “have you not 
seen nor heard anything remarkable ?” 

“Well, sir, I must own I have heard something 
queer.” 

“What?— what?” 

“The sound of feet pattering behind me; and once 
or twice small noises like whispers close at my ear — 
nothing more.” 

“You are not at all frightened?” 

392 


THE HOUSE AND THE BRAIN 


“I! not a bit of it, sir;” and the man’s bold look 
reassured me on one point — viz. : that happen what 
might, he would not desert me. 

We were in the hall, the street door closed, and my 
attention was now drawn to my dog. He had at first 
run in eagerly enough but had sneaked back to the 
door, and was scratching and whining to get out. 
After patting him on the head, and encouraging him 
gently, the dog seemed to reconcile himself to the situa- 
tion and followed me and F through the house, 

but keeping close to my heels instead of hurrying 
inquisitively in advance, which was his usual and 
normal habit in all strange places. We first visited 
the subterranean apartments, the kitchen, and other 
offices, and especially the cellars, in which last there 
were two or three bottles of wine still left in a bin, 
covered with cobwebs, and evidently, by their appear- 
ance, undisturbed for many years. It was clear that 
the ghosts were not wine-bibbers. For the rest, we 
discovered nothing of interest. There was a gloomy 
little backyard, with very high walls. The stones of 
this yard were very damp; and what with the damp, 
and what with the dust and smoke-grime on the pave- 
ment, our feet left a slight impression where we 
passed. And now appeared the first strange phenome- 
non witnessed by myself in this strange abode. I saw, 
just before me, the print of a foot suddenly form it- 
self, as it were. I stopped, caught hold of my servant, 
and pointed to it. In advance of that footprint as 
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THE BOY SCOUTS BOOK OF STORIES 


suddenly dropped another. We both saw it. I ad- 
vanced quickly to the place ; the footprint kept advanc- 
ing before me, a small footprint — the foot of a child; 
the impression was too faint thoroughly to distinguish 
the shape, but it seemed to us both that it was the print 
of a naked foot. 

This phenomenon ceased when we arrived at the 
opposite wall, nor did it repeat itself on returning. 
We remounted the stairs, and entered the rooms on 
the ground floor, a dining-parlor, a small back-parlor, 
and a still smaller third room that had been probably 
appropriated to a footman — all still as death. We 
then visited the drawing-rooms, which seemed fresh 
and new. In the front room I seated myself in an 

armchair. F placed on the table the candlestick 

with which he had lighted us. I told him to shut the 
door. As he turned to do so, a chair opposite to me 
moved from the wall quickly and noiselessly, and 
dropped itself about a yard from my own, immediately 
fronting it. 

“Why, this is better than the turning-tables, 1 ” said 
I, with a half-laugh; and as I laughed, my dog put 
back his head and howled. 

F , coming back, had not observed the move- 

ment of the chair. He employed himself now in still- 
ing the dog. I continued to gaze on the chair, and 
fancied I saw on it a pale blue misty outline of a 
human figure, but an outline so indistinct that I could 
only distrust my own vision. The dog was now quiet. 
394 


THE HOUSE AND THE BRAIN 

‘Tut back that chair opposite to me,” said I to 
F ; “put it back to the wall.” 

F obeyed. “Was that you, sir?” said he turn- 

ing abruptly. 

“I!— what?” 

“Why, something struck me. I felt it sharply on 
the shoulder — just here.” 

“No,” said I. “But we have jugglers present, and 
though we may not discover their tricks, we shall catch 
them before they frighten us.” 

We did not stay long in the drawing-rooms — in fact, 
they felt so damp and so chilly that I was glad to get 
to the fire upstairs. We locked the doors of the draw- 
ing-rooms — a precaution which, I should observe, we 
had taken with all the rooms we had searched below. 
The bedroom my servant had selected for me was the 
best on the floor — a large one, with two windows 
fronting the street. The four-posted bed, which took 
up no inconsiderable space, was opposite to the fire, 
which burnt clear and bright ; a door in the wall to the 
left, between the bed and the window, communicated 
with the room which my servant appropriated to him- 
self. This last was a small room with a sofa-bed, and 
had no communication with the landing-place — no 
other door but that which conducted to the bedroom 
I was to occupy. On either side of my fireplace was 
a cupboard, without locks, flush with the wall, and 
covered with the same dull-brown paper. We ex- 
amined these cupboards — only hooks to suspend fe- 
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THE BOY SCOUTS BOOK OF STORIES 


male dresses — nothing else; we sounded the walls — 
evidently solid — the outer walls of the building. 
Having finished the survey of these apartments, 
warmed myself a few moments, and lighted my cigar, 

I then, still accompanied by F , went forth to 

complete my reconnoiter. In the landing-place there 
was another door! it was closed firmly. “Sir,” said 
my servant, in surprise, “I unlocked this door with 
all the others when I first came; it can not have got 
locked from the inside, for ” 

Before he had finished his sentence, the door, which 
neither of us then was touching, opened quietly of 
itself. We looked at each other a single instant. 
The same thought seized both — some human agency 
might be detected here. I rushed in first — my servant 
followed. A small blank dreary room without furni- 
ture — a few empty boxes and hampers in a corner — 
a small window — the shutters closed — not even a fire- 
place — no other door but that by which we had en- 
tered — no carpet on the floor, and the floor seemed 
very old, uneven, worm-eaten, mended here and there, 
as was shown by the whiter patches on the wood ; but 
no living being, and no visible place in which a living 
being could have hidden. As we stood gazing around, 
the door by which we had entered closed as quietly as 
it had before opened ; we were imprisoned. 

For the first time I felt a creep of undefinable hor- 
ror. Not so my servant. “Why, they don’t think to 

396 


THE HOUSE AND THE BRAIN 


trap us, sir; I could break that trumpery door with 
a kick of my foot.” 

“Try first if it will open to your hand/’ said I, shak- 
ing off the vague apprehension that had seized me, 
“while I unclose the shutters and see what is without.” 

I unbarred the shutters — the window looked on the 
little back-yard I have before described ; there was no 
ledge without — nothing to break the sheer descent of 
the wall. No man getting out of that window would 
have found any footing till he had fallen on the stones 
below. 

F , meanwhile, was vainly attempting to open 

the door. He now turned round to me and asked my 
permission to use force. And I should here state, in 
justice to the servant, that far from evincing any 
superstitious terrors, his nerve, composure, and even 
gayety amid circumstances so extraordinary, compelled 
my admiration, and made me congratulate myself on 
having secured a companion in every way fitted to the 
occasion. I willingly gave him the permission he 
required. But though he was a remarkably strong 
man, his force was as idle as his milder efforts; the 
door did not even shake to his stoutest kick. Breath- 
less and panting, he desisted. I then tried the door 
myself, equally in vain. As I ceased from the effort, 
again that creep of horror came over me ; but this time 
it was more cold and stubborn. I felt as if some 
strange and ghastly exhalation were rising up from 
the chinks of that rugged floor, and filling the atmos- 
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THE BOY SCOUTS BOOK OF STORIES 

phere with a venomous influence hostile to human life. 
The door now very slowly and quietly opened as of 
its own accord. We precipitated ourselves into the 
landing-place. We both saw a large pale light — as 
large as the human figure, but shapeless and unsub- 
stantial — move before us, and ascend the stairs that 
led from the landing into the attic. I followed the 
light, and my servant followed me. It entered to the 
right of the landing, a small garret, of which the door 
stood open. I entered in the same instant. The light 
then collapsed into a small globule, exceedingly bril- 
liant and vivid ; rested a moment on a bed in the cor- 
ner, quivered, and vanished. We approached the bed 
and examined it — a half-tester, such as is commonly 
found in attics devoted to servants. On the drawers 
that stood near it we perceived an old faded silk 
handkerchief, with the needle still left in a rent half 
repaired. The kerchief was covered with dust; prob- 
ably it had belonged to the old woman who had last died 
in that house, and this might have been her sleeping- 
room. I had sufficient curiosity to open the drawers : 
there were a few odds and ends of female dress, and 
two letters tied round with a narrow ribbon of faded 
yellow. I took the liberty to possess myself of the 
letters. We found nothing else in the room worth 
noticing — nor did the light reappear ; but we distinctly 
heard, as we turned to go, a pattering footfall on the 
floor — just before us. We went through the other 
attics (in all four), the footfall still preceding us. 

398 


THE HOUSE AND THE BRAIN 


Nothing to be seen — nothing but the footfall heard. 
I had the letters in my hand : just as I was descending 
the stairs I distinctly felt my wrist seized, and a faint 
soft effort made to draw the letters from my clasp. 
I only held them the more tightly, and the effort 
ceased. 

We regained the bed-chamber appropriated to my- 
self, and I then remarked that my dog had not fol- 
lowed us when we had left it. He was thrusting 
himself close to the fire and trembling. I was im- 
patient to examine the letters ; and while I read them, 
my servant opened a little box in which he had de- 
posited the weapons I had ordered him to bring ; took 
them out, placed them on a table close at my bed-head, 
and he occupied himself in soothing the dog, who, 
however, seemed to heed him very little. 

The letters were short — they were dated; the dates 
exactly thirty-five years ago. They were evidently 
from a lover to his mistress, or a husband to some 
young wife. Not only the terms of expression, but a 
distinct reference to a former voyage, indicated the 
writer to have been a seafarer. The spelling and 
handwriting were those of a man imperfectly edu- 
cated, but still the language itself was forcible. In 
the expressions of endearment there was a kind of 
rough wild love; but here and there were dark un- 
intelligible hints at some secret not of love — some 
secret that seemed of crime. “We ought to love each 
other,” was one of the sentences I remember, “for how 
399 


THE BOY SCOUTS BOOK OF STORIES 

every one else would execrate us if all was known.” 
Again : “Don’t let any one be in the same room with 
you at night — you talk in your sleep.” And again: 
“What’s done can’t be undone; and I tell you there’s 
nothing against us unless the dead could come to life.” 
Here there was underlined in a better handwriting (a 
female’s) : “They do!” At the end of the letter 
latest in date the same female hand had written these 
words: “Lost at sea the 4th of June, the same day 
as ” 

I put down the letters, and began to muse over 
their contents. 

Fearing, however, that the train of thought into 
which I fell might unsteady my nerves, I fully deter- 
mined to keep my mind in a fit state to cope with 
whatever of marvelous the advancing night might 
bring forth. I roused myself — laid the letters on the 
table — stirred up the fire, which was still bright and 
cheering, and opened my volume of Macaulay. I 
read quietly enough till about half-past eleven. I then 
threw myself dressed upon the bed, and told my 
servant he might retire to his own room, but must 
keep himself awake. I bade him leave open the door 
between the two rooms. Thus alone, I kept two 
candles burning on the table by my bed-head. I placed 
my watch beside the weapons, and calmly resumed my 
Macaulay. Opposite to me the fire burned clear ; and 
on the hearth-rug, seemingly asleep, lay the dog. 
In about twenty minutes I felt an exceedingly cold air 
400 


THE HOUSE AND THE BRAIN 


pass by my cheek, like a sudden draft. I fancied the 
door to my right, communicating with the landing- 
place, must have got open, but no — it was closed. I 
then turned my glance to my left, and saw the flame 
of the candles violently swayed as by a wind. At the 
same moment the watch beside the revolver softly slid 
from the table — softly, softly — no visible hand — it was 
gone. I sprang up, seizing the revolver with one 
hand, the dagger with the other: I was not willing 
that my weapons should share the fate of the watch. 
Thus armed, I looked round the floor — no sign of the 
watch. Three slow, loud, distinct knocks were now 
heard at the bed-head ; my servant called out : “Is that 
you, sir?” 

“No; be on your guard.” 

The dog now roused himself and sat on his 
haunches, his ears moving quickly backward and for- 
ward. He kept his eyes fixed on me with a look so 
strange that he concentrated all my attention on him- 
self. Slowly, he rose up, all his hair bristling, and 
stood perfectly rigid, and with the same wild stare. 
I had not time, however, to examine the dog. Pres- 
ently my servant emerged from his room; and if ever 
I saw horror in the human face, it was then. I should 
not have recognized him had we met in the street, so 
altered was every lineament. He passed by me quickly, 
saying in a whisper that seemed scarcely to come from 
his lips : “Run — run ! it is after me !” He gained the 
door to the landing, pulled it open, and rushed forth. 
401 


THE BOY SCOUTS BOOK OF STORIES 


I followed him into the landing involuntarily, calling 
him to stop ; but, without heeding me, he bounded down 
the stairs, clinging to the balusters, and taking several 
steps at a time. I heard, where I stood, the street-door 
open — heard it again clap to. I was left alone in the 
haunted house. 

It was but for a moment that I remained undecided 
whether or not to follow my servant; pride and curi- 
osity alike forbade so dastardly a flight. I re-entered 
my room, closing the door after me, and proceeded 
cautiously into the interior chamber. I encountered 
nothing to justify my servant’s terror. I again care- 
fully examined the walls, to see if there were any 
concealed door. I could find no trace of one — not 
even a seam in the dull-brown paper with which the 
room was hung. How, then, had the Thing, what- 
ever it was, which had so scared him, obtained ingress 
except through my own chamber? 

I returned to my room, shut and locked the door 
that opened upon the interior one, and stood on the 
hearth, expectant and prepared. I now perceived that 
the dog had slunk into an angle of the wall, and was 
pressing himself close against it, as if literally striv- 
ing to force his way into it. I approached the animal 
and spoke to it; the poor brute was evidently beside 
itself with terror. It showed all its teeth, the slaver 
dropping from its jaws, and would certainly have 
bitten me if I had touched it. It did not seem to 
recognize me. Whoever has seen at the Zoological 
402 


THE HOUSE AND THE BRAIN 


Gardens a rabbit, fascinated by a serpent, cowering 
in a corner, may form some idea of the anguish which 
the dog exhibited. Finding all efforts to soothe the 
animal in vain, and fearing that his bite might be as 
venomous in that state as in the madness of hydro- 
phobia, I left him alone, placed my weapons on the 
table beside the fire, seated myself, and recommenced 
my Macaulay. 

I now became aware that something interposed be- 
tween the page and the light — the page was over- 
shadowed : I looked up, and I saw what I shall find it 
very difficult, perhaps impossible, to describe. 

It was a darkness shaping itself forth from the air 
in very undefined outline. I can not say it was of a 
human form, and yet it had more resemblance to a 
human form, or rather shadow, than to anything else. 
As it stood, wholly apart and distinct from the air 
and the light around it, its dimensions seemed gigantic, 
the summit nearly touching the ceiling. While I 
gazed, a feeling of intense cold seized me. An iceberg 
before me could not more have chilled me; nor could 
the cold of an iceberg have been more purely physical. 
I feel convinced that it was not the cold caused by fear. 
As I continued to gaze, I thought — but this I can not 
say with precision — that I distinguished two eyes look- 
ing down on me from the height. One moment I 
fancied that I distinguished them clearly, the next they 
seemed gone; but still two rays of a pale-blue light 
frequently shot through the darkness, as from the 
4°3 


THE BOY SCOUTS BOOK OF STORIES 

height on which I half-believed, half-doubted, that I 
had encountered the eyes. 

I strove to speak — my voice utterly failed me; I 
could only think to myself: “Is this fear? it is not 
fear!” I strove to rise — in vain; I felt as if weighed 
down by an irresistible force. Indeed, my impression 
was that of an immense and overwhelming power op- 
posed to my volition — that sense of utter inadequacy 
to cope with a force beyond man’s, which one may feel 
physically in a storm at sea, in a conflagration, or when 
confronting some terrible wild beast, or rather, per- 
haps, the shark of the ocean, I felt morally. Opposed 
to my will was another will, as far superior to its 
strength as storm, fire, and shark are superior in 
material force to the force of man. 

And now, as this impression grew on me — now 
came, at last, horror — horror to a degree that no 
words can convey. Still I retained pride, if not cour- 
age ; and in my own mind I said : “This is horror, but 
it is not fear; unless I fear I can not be harmed; my 
reason rejects this thing; it is an illusion— I do not 
fear.” With a violent effort I succeded at last in 
stretching out my hand toward the weapon on the 
table : as I did so, on the arm and shoulder I received 
a strange shock, and my arm fell to my side powerless. 
And now, to add to my horror, the light began slowly 
to wane from the candles — they were not, as it were, 
extinguished, but their flame seemed very gradually 
withdrawn; it was the same with the fire — the light 
404 


THE HOUSE AND THE BRAIN 


was extracted from the fuel; in a few minutes the 
room was in utter darkness. The dread that came 
over me, to be thus in the dark with that dark Thing, 
whose power was so intensely felt, brought a reaction 
of nerve. In fact, terror had reached that climax, 
that either my senses must have deserted me, or I must 
have burst through the spell. I did burst through it. 
I found voice, though the voice was a shriek. I re- 
member that I broke forth with words like these: 
“I do not fear, my soul does not fear”; and at the 
same time I found strength to rise. Still in that pro- 
found gloom I rushed to one of the windows — tore 
aside the curtain — flung open the shutters; my first 
thought was — Light. And when I saw the moon 
high, clear, and calm, I felt a joy that almost com- 
pensated for the previous terror. There was the 
moon, there was also the light from the gas-lamps in 
the deserted slumberous street. I turned to look back 
into the room; the moon penetrated its shadow very 
palely and partially — but still there was light. The 
dark Thing, whatever it might be, was gone — except 
that I could yet see a dim shadow, which seemed the 
shadow of that shade, against the opposite wall. 

My eye now rested on the table, and from under 
the table (which was without cloth or cover — an old 
mahogany round table) there rose a hand, visible as 
far as the wrist. It was a hand, seemingly, as much 
of flesh and blood as my own, but the hand of an 
aged person — lean, wrinkled, small, too — a woman’s 
405 


THE BOY SCOUTS BOOK OF STORIES 


hand. That hand very softly closed on the two let- 
ters that lay on the table; the hand and letters both 
vanished. Then there came the same three loud 
measured knocks I had heard at the bed-head before 
this extraordinary drama had commenced. 

As those sounds slowly ceased, I felt the whole 
room vibrate sensibly; and at the far end there rose, 
as from the floor, sparks or globules like bubbles of 
light, many colored — green, yellow, fire-red, azure. 
Up and down, to and fro, hither, thither, as tiny Will- 
o’-the-wisps, the sparks moved, slow or swift, each 
at its own caprice. A chair (as in the drawing-room 
below) was now advanced from the wall without ap- 
parent agency, and placed at the opposite side of the 
table. Suddenly, as forth from the chair, there grew 
a shape — a woman’s shape. It was distinct as a shape 
of life — ghastly as a shape of death. The face was 
that of youth, with a strange mournful beauty; the 
throat and shoulders were bare, the rest of the form 
in a loose robe of cloudy white. It began sleeking 
its long yellow hair, which fell over its shoulders; its 
eyes were not turned toward me, but to the door; it 
seemed listening, watching, waiting. The shadow of 
the shade in the background grew darker; and again 
I thought I beheld the eyes gleaming out from the 
summit of the shadow — eyes fixed upon that shape. 

As if from the door, though it did not open, there 
grew out another shape, equally distinct, equally 
ghastly — a man’s shape — a young man’s. It was in 
406 


THE HOUSE AND THE BRAIN 


the dress of the last century, or rather in a likeness of 
such dress (for both the male shape and the female, 
though defined, were evidently unsubstantial, impal- 
pable — simulacra — phantasms) ; and there was some- 
ing incongruous, grotesque, yet fearful, in the con- 
trast between the elaborate finery, the courtly pre- 
cision of that old-fashioned garb, with its ruffles and 
lace and buckles, and the corpse-like stillness of the 
flitting wearer. Just as the male shape approached the 
female, the dark Shadow started from the wall, all 
three for a moment wrapped in darkness. When the 
pale light returned, the two phantoms were as if in 
the grasp of the Shadow that towered between them; 
and there was a blood-stain on the breast of the female ; 
and the phantom male was leaning on its phantom 
sword, and blood seemed trickling fast from the ruffles, 
from the lace; and the darkness of the intermediate 
Shadow swallowed them up — they were gone. And 
again the bubbles of light shot, and sailed, and un- 
dulated, growing thicker and thicker and more wildly 
confused in their movements. 

The closet door to the right of the fireplace now 
opened, and from the aperture there came forth the 
form of an aged woman. In her hand she held letters 
— the very letters over which I had seen the Hand 
close; and behind her I heard a footstep. She turned 
round as if to listen, and then she opened the letters 
and seemed to read; and over her shoulder I saw a 
livid face, the face as of a man long drowned — bloated, 
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THE BOY SCOUTS BOOK OF STORIES 


bleached — seaweed tangled in his dripping hair; and 
at her feet lay a form as of a corpse, and beside the 
corpse there cowered a child, a miserable squalid child, 
with famine in its cheeks and fear in its eyes. And as 
I looked in the old woman’s face, the wrinkles and 
lines vanished, and it became a face of youth — hard- 
eyed, stony, but still youth; and the Shadow darted 
forth, and darkened over those phantoms as it had 
darkened over the last. 

Nothing now was left but the Shadow, and on that 
my eyes were intently fixed, till again eyes grew out of 
the Shadow — malignant, serpent eyes. And the bub- 
bles of light again rose and fell, and in their dis- 
ordered, irregular, turbulent maze, mingled with the 
wan moonlight. And now from these globules them- 
selves, as from the shell of an egg, monstrous things 
burst out; the air grew filled with them; larvae so 
bloodless and so hideous that I can in no way describe 
them except to remind the reader of the swarming life 
which the solar microscope brings before his eyes in 
a drop of water — things transparent, supple, agile, 
chasing each other, devouring each other — forms like 
naught ever beheld by the naked eye. As the shapes 
were without symmetry, so their movements were 
without order. In their very vagrancies there was 
no sport ; they came round me and round, thicker and 
faster and swifter, swarming over my head, crawling 
over my right arm, which was outstretched in invol- 
untary command against all evil beings. Sometimes 
408 


THE HOUSE AND THE BRAIN 


I felt myself touched, but not by them ; invisible hands 
touched me. Once I felt the clutch as of cold soft 
fingers at my throat. I was still equally conscious that 
if I gave way to fear I should be in bodily peril; and 
I concentrated all my faculties in the single focus of 
resisting, stubborn will. And I turned my sight from 
the Shadow — above all, from those strange serpent 
eyes — eyes that had now become distinctly visible. 
For there, though in naught else around me, I was 
aware that there was a WILL, and a will of intense, 
creative, working evil, which might crush down my 
own. 

The pale atmosphere in the room began now to 
redden as if in the air of some near conflagration. 
The larvae grew lurid as things that live in fire. Again 
the moon vibrated ; again were heard the three meas- 
ured knocks; and again all things were swallowed up 
in the darkness of the dark Shadow, as if out of that 
darkness all had come, into that darkness all re- 
turned. 

As the gloom receded, the Shadow was wholly gone. 
Slowly, as it had been withdrawn, the flame grew 
again into the candles on the table, again into the fuel 
in the grate. The whole room came once more 
calmly, healthfully into sight. 

The two doors were still closed, the door communi- 
cating with the servant's room still locked. In the 
corner of the wall, into which he had so convulsively 
niched himself, lay the dog. I called to him — no 
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THE BOY SCOUTS BOOK OF STORIES 


movement; I approached — the animal was dead; his 
eyes protruded; his tongue out of his mouth; the 
froth gathered round his jaws. I took him in my 
arms; I brought him to the fire; I felt acute grief for 
the loss of my poor favorite — acute self-reproach; I 
accused myself of his death; I imagined he had died 
of fright. But what was my surprise on finding that 
his neck was actually broken. Had this been done in 
the dark? — must it not have been by a hand human 
as mine? — must there not have been a human agency 
all the while in that room ? Good cause to suspect it. 
I can not tell. I can not do more than state the fact 
fairly ; the reader may draw his own inference. 

Another surprising circumstance — my watch was 
restored to the table from which it had been so mys- 
teriously withdrawn; but it had stopped at the very 
moment it was so withdrawn; nor, despite all the 
skill of the watchmaker, has it ever gone since — that 
is, it will go in a strange erratic way for a few hours, 
and then come to a dead stop — it is worthless. 

Nothing more chanced for the rest of the night. 
Nor, indeed, had I long to wait before the dawn broke. 
Nor till it was broad daylight did I quit the haunted 
house. Before I did so, I revisited the little blind 
room in which my servant and myself had been for a 
time imprisoned. I had a strong impression — for 
which I could not account — that from that room had 
originated the mechanism of the phenomena — if I may 
use the term — which had been experienced in my cham- 
410 


THE HOUSE AND THE BRAIN 


ber. And though I entered it now in the clear day, 
with the sun peering through the filmy window, I still 
felt, as I stood on its floors, the creep of the horror 
which I had first there experienced the night before, 
and which had been so aggravated by what had passed 
in my own chamber. I could not, indeed, bear to 
stay more than half a minute within those walls. I 
descended the stairs, and again I heard the footfall be- 
fore me ; and when I opened the street door, I thought 
I could distinguish a very low laugh. I gained my 
own house, expecting to find my runaway servant 
there. But he had not presented himself, nor did I 
hear more of him for three days, when I received a 
letter from him, dated from Liverpool to this effect: 

“Honored Sir: — I humbly entreat your pardon, though 
I can scarcely hope that you will think that I deserve it, 
unless — which Heaven forbid ! — you saw what I did. I feel 
that it will be years before I can recover ‘myself ; and as 
to being fit for service, it is out of the question. I am 
therefore going to my brother-in-law at Melbourne. The 
ship sails tomorrow. Perhaps the long voyage may set me 
up. I do nothing now but start and tremble, and fancy It 
is behind me. I humbly beg you, honored sir, to order 
my clothes, and whatever wages are due to me, to be sent 
to my mother's, at Walworth — John knows her address." 

The letter ended with additional apologies, some- 
what incoherent, and explanatory details as to effects 
that had been under the writer’s charge. 

This flight may perhaps warrant a suspicion that 
the man wished to go to Australia, and had been some- 
411 


THE BOY SCOUTS BOOK OF STORIES 


how or other fraudulently mixed up with the events 
of the night. I say nothing in refutation of that con- 
jecture; rather, I suggest it as one that would seem 
to many persons the most probable solution of im- 
probable occurrences. My belief in my own theory 
remained unshaken. I returned in the evening to the 
house, to bring away in a hack cab the things I had 
left there, with my poor dog’s body. In this task I 
was not disturbed, nor did any incident worth note 
befall me, except that still, on ascending and descend- 
ing the stairs, I heard the same footfall in advance. 

On leaving the house, I went to Mr. J ’s. He was 

at home. I returned him the keys, told him that my 
curiosity was sufficiently gratified, and was about to 
relate quickly what had passed, when he stopped me, 
and said, though with much politeness, that he had 
no longer any interest in a mystery which none had 
ever solved. 

I determined at least to tell him of the two letters 
I had read, as well a& of the extraordinary manner in 
which they had disappeared, and I then inquired if he 
thought they had been addressed to the woman who 
had died in the house, and if there were anything in 
her early history which could possibly confirm the 
dark suspicions to which the letters gave rise. Mr. 
J seemed startled, and, after musing a few mo- 

ments, answered: “I am but little acquainted with 
the woman’s earlier history, except, as I before told 
you, that her family were known to mine. But you 
412 


THE HOUSE AND THE BRAIN 


revive some vague reminiscences to her prejudice. I 
will make inquiries, and inform you of their result.' 
Still, even if we could admit the popular superstition 
that a person who had been either the perpetrator or 
the victim of dark crimes in life could revisit, as a 
restless spirit, the scene in which those crimes had 
been committed, I should observe that the house was 
infested by strange sights and sounds before the old 
woman died — you smile — what would you say?” 

“I would say this, that I am convinced, if we 
could get to the bottom of these mysteries, we should 
find a living human agency.” 

“What ! you believe it is all an imposture ? for what 
object?” 

“Not an imposture in the ordinary sense of the 
word. If suddenly I were to sink into a deep sleep, 
from which you could not awake me, but in that sleep 
could answer questions with an accuracy which I could 
not pretend to when awake — tell you what money you 
had in your pocket — nay, describe your very thoughts 
— it is not necessarily an imposture, any more than it 
is necessarily supernatural. I should be, unconsciously 
to myself, under a mesmeric influence, conveyed to me 
from a distance by a human being who had acquired 
power over me by previous rapport 

“But if a mesmerizer could so affect another living 
being, can you suppose that a mesmerizer could also 
affect inanimate objects; move chairs — open and shut 
doors?” 


413 


THE BOY SCOUTS BOOK OF STORIES 

“Or impress our senses with the belief in such ef- 
fects — we never having been cn rapport with the per- 
son acting on us? No. What is commonly called 
mesmerism could not do this; but there may be a 
power akin to mesmerism and superior to it — the 
power that in the old days was called Magic. That 
such a power may extend to all inanimate objects of 
matter, I do not say; but if so, it would not be against 
nature — it would only be a rare power in nature 
which might be given to constitutions with certain pe- 
culiarities, and cultivated by practice to an extraor- 
dinary degree. 

“That such a power might extend over the dead 
• — that is, over certain thoughts and memories that the 
dead may still retain — and compel, not that which 
ought properly to be called the Soul, and which is far 
beyond human reach, but rather a phantom of what 
has been most earth-stained on earth to make itself 
apparent to our senses — is a very ancient though obso- 
lete theory, upon which I will hazard no opinion. But 
I do not conceive the power to be supernatural. Let 
me illustrate what I mean from an experiment which 
Paracelsus describes as not difficult, and which the 
author of the ‘Curiosities of Literature’ cites as cred- 
ible: A flower perishes; you bum it. Whatever 
were the elements of that flower while it lived are 
gone, dispersed, you know not whither ; you can never 
discover nor re-collect them. But you can, by chem- 
istry, out of the burned dust of that flower, raise a 
414 


THE HOUSE AND THE BRAIN 

spectrum of the flower, just as it seemed in life. It 
may be the same with the human being. The soul 
has as much escaped you as the essence or elements 
of the flower. Still you may make a spectrum of it. 
And this phantom, though in the popular superstition 
it is held to be the soul of the departed, must not be 
confounded with the true soul ; it is but the eidolon of 
the dead form. Hence, like the best attested stories 
of ghosts or spirits, the thing that most strikes us is 
the absence of what we hold to be the soul; that is, of 
superior emancipated intelligence. These apparitions 
come for little or no object — they seldom speak when 
they do come; if they speak, they utter no ideas above 
those of an ordinary person on earth. Wonderful, 
therefore, as such phenomena may be (granting them 
to be truthful), I see much that philosophy may ques- 
tion, nothing that it is incumbent on philosophy to 
deny — viz., nothing supernatural. They are but 
ideas conveyed somehow or other (we have not yet 
discovered the means) from one mortal brain to an- 
other. Whether, in so doing, tables walk by their 
own accord, or fiend-like shapes appear in a magic 
circle, or bodyless hands rise and remove material ob- 
jects, or a Thing of Darkness, such as presented it- 
self to me, freeze our blood — still am I persuaded that 
these are but agencies conveyed, as by electric wires, 
to my own brain from the brain of another. In some 
constitutions there is a natural chemistry, and those 
constitutions may produce chemic wonders — in others 
415 


THE BOY SCOUTS BOOK OF STORIES 


a natural fluid, call it electricity, and these may pro- 
duce electric wonders. But the wonders differ from 
Natural Science in this — they are alike objectless, pur- 
poseless, puerile, frivolous. They lead on to no grand 
results; and therefore the world does not heed, and 
true sages have not cultivated them. But sure I am, 
that of all I saw or heard, a man, human as myself, 
was the remote originator ; and I believe unconsciously 
to himself as to the exact effects produced, for this 
reason : no two persons, you say, have ever experienced 
exactly the same thing. Well, observe, no two per- 
sons ever experience exactly the same dream. If this 
were an ordinary imposture, the machinery would be 
arranged for results that would but little vary; if it 
were a supernatural agency permitted by the Almighty, 
it would surely be for some 'definite end. These 
phenomena belong to neither class; my persuasion is 
that they originated in some brain now far distant ; that 
that brain had no distinct volition in anything that 
occurred ; that what does occur reflects but its devious, 
motley, ever-shifting, half-formed thoughts; in short, 
that it has been but the dreams of such a brain put in 
action and invested with a semi-substance. That this 
brain is of immense power, that it can set matter into 
movement, that it is malignant and destructive, I be- 
lieve; some material force must have killed my dog; 
the same force might, for aught I know, have sufficed 
to kill myself, had I been as subjugated by terror as 
416 


THE HOUSE AND THE BRAIN 


the dog — had my intellect or my spirit given me no 
countervailing resistance in my will.” 

“It killed your dog! that is fearful! indeed it is 
strange that no animal can be induced to stay in that 
house ; not even a cat. Rats and mice are never found 
in it.” 

“The instincts of the brute creation detect influences 
deadly to their existence. Man’s reason has a sense 
less subtle, because it has a resisting power more su- 
preme. But enough; do you comprehend my theory?” 

“Yes, though imperfectly — and I accept any crotchet 
(pardon the word), however odd, rather than embrace 
at once the notion of ghosts and hobgoblins we imbibed 
in our nurseries. Still, to my unfortunate house the 
evil is the same. What on earth can I do with the 
house?” 

“I will tell you what I would do. I am convinced 
from my own internal feelings that the small unfur- 
nished room at right angles to the door of the bed- 
room which I occupied forms a starting-point or 
receptacle for the influences which haunt the house; 
and I strongly advise you to have the walls opened, 
the floor removed — nay, the whole room pulled down. 
I observe that it is detached from the body of the 
house, built over the small back-yard, and could be 
removed without injury to the rest of the building.” 

“And you think, if I did that ” 

“You would cut off the telegraph wires. Try it. 
I am so persuaded that I am right that I will pay 
417 


THE BOY SCOUTS BOOK OF STORIES 


half the expense if you will allow me to direct the 
operations.” 

“Nay, I am well able to afford the cost; for the rest, 
allow me to write to you.” 

About ten days after I received a letter from Mr. 

J , telling me that he had visited the house since I 

had seen him ; that he had found the two letters I had 
described, replaced in the drawer from which I had 
taken them; that he had read them with misgivings 
like my own ; that he had instituted a cautious inquiry 
about the woman to whom I rightly conjectured they 
had been written. It seemed that thirty-six years ago 
(a year before the date of the letters) she had married, 
against the wish of her relations, an American of very 
suspicious character ; in fact, he was generally believed 
to have been a pirate. She herself was the daughter 
of very respectable tradespeople, and had served in the 
capacity of a nursery governess before her marriage. 
She had a brother, a widower, who was considered 
wealthy, and who had one child of about six years old. 
A month after the marriage, the body of this brother 
was found in the Thames, near London Bridge ; there 
seemed some marks of violence about his throat, but 
they were not deemed sufficient to warrant the inquest 
in any other verdict than that of “found drowned.” 

The American and his wife took charge of the little 
boy, the deceased brother having by his will left his 
sister the guardianship of his only child — and in the 
event of the child’s death, the sister inherited. The 
418 


THE HOUSE AND THE BRAIN 

child died about six months afterward — it was sup- 
posed to have been neglected and ill-treated. The 
neighbors deposed to having heard it shriek at night. 
The surgeon who had examined it after death said 
that it was emaciated as if from want of nourishment, 
and the body was covered with livid bruises. It 
seemed that one winter night the child had sought to 
escape — crept out into the back-yard — tried to scale 
the wall — fallen back exhausted, and had been found 
at morning on the stones in a dying state. But though 
there was some evidence of cruelty, there was none of 
murder; and the aunt and her husband had sought to 
palliate cruelty by alleging the exceeding stubbornness 
and perversity of the child, who was declared to be 
half-witted. Be that as it may, at the orphan’s death 
the aunt inherited her brother’s fortune. Before the 
first wedded year was out, the American quitted Eng- 
land abruptly, and never returned to it. He obtained 
a cruising vessel, which was lost in the Atlantic two 
years afterward. The widow was left in affluence; 
but reverses of various kinds had befallen her; a bank 
broke — an investment failed — she went into a small 
business and became insolvent — then she entered into 
service, sinking lower and lower, from housekeeper 
down to maid-o f -all- work — never long retaining a 
place, though nothing decided against her character 
was ever alleged. She was considered sober, honest, 
and peculiarly quiet in her ways; still nothing pros- 
pered with her. And so she had dropped into the 
419 


THE BOY SCOUTS BOOK OF STORIES 


workhouse, from which Mr. J had taken her, to 

be placed in charge of the very house which she had 
rented as mistress in the first year of her wedded life. 

Mr. J added that he had passed an hour alone 

in the unfurnished room which I had urged him to 
destroy, and that his impressions of dread while there 
were so great, though he had neither heard nor seen 
anything, that he was eager to have the walls bared 
and the floors removed as I had suggested. He had 
engaged persons for the work, and would commence 
any day I would name. 

The day was accordingly fixed. I repaired to the 
haunted house — we went into the blind dreary room, 
took up the skirting, and then the floors. Under the 
rafters, covered with rubbish, was found a trap-door, 
quite large enough to admit a man. It was closely 
nailed down, with clamps and rivets of iron. On re- 
moving these we descended into a room below, the 
existence of which had never been suspected. In this 
room there had been a window and a flue, but they had 
been bricked over, evidently for many years. By the 
help of candles we examined this place ; it still retained 
some moldering furniture — three chairs, an oak settle, 
a table — all of the fashion of about eighty years ago. 
There was a chest of drawers against the wall, in 
which we found, half-rotted away, old-fashioned 
articles of a man's dress, such as might have been worn 
eighty or a hundred years ago by a gentleman of some 
rank — costly steel buttons and buckles, like those yet 
420 


THE HOUSE AND THE BRAIN 


worn in court-dresses, a handsome court sword — in 
a waistcoat which had once been rich with gold lace, 
but which was now blackened and foul with damp, we 
found five guineas, a few silver coins, and an ivory 
ticket, probably for some place of entertainment long 
since passed away. But our main discovery was in a 
kind of iron safe fixed to the wall, the lock of which it 
cost us much trouble to get picked. 

In this safe were three shelves, and two small draw- 
ers. Ranged on the shelves were several small bottles 
of crystal, hermetically stoppered. They contained 
colorless volatile essences, of the nature of which I 
shall only say that they were not poisonous — phosphor 
and ammonia entered into some of them. There were 
also some very curious glass tubes, and a small pointed 
rod of iron, with a large lump of rock crystal, and an- 
other of amber — also a loadstone of great power. 

In one of the drawers we found a miniature portrait 
set in gold, and retaining the freshness of its colors 
most remarkably, considering the length of time it had 
probably been there. The portrait was that of a man 
who might be somewhat advanced in middle life, per- 
haps forty-seven or forty-eight. 

It was a remarkable face — a most impressive face. 
If you could fancy some mighty serpent transformed 
into a man, preserving in the human lineaments the 
old serpent type, you would have a better idea of that 
countenance than long descriptions can convey; the 
width and flatness of frontal — the tapering elegance 
421 


THE BOY SCOUTS BOOK OF STORIES 

of contour disguising the strength of the deadly jaw — 
the long, large, terrible eye, glittering and green as 
the emerald — and withal a certain ruthless calm, as if 
from the consciousness of an immense power. 

Mechanically I turned round the miniature to ex- 
amine the back of it, and on the back was engraved a 
pentacle ; in the middle of the pentacle a ladder, and the 
third step of the ladder was formed by the date 1765. 
Examining still more minutely, I detected a spring; 
this, on being pressed, opened the back of the minia- 
ture as a lid. Withinside the lid was engraved, 
“Marianna to thee — Be faithful in life and in death 
to .” Here follows a name that I will not men- 

tion, but it was not unfamiliar to me. I had heard it 
spoken of by old men in my childhood as the name 
borne by a dazzling charlatan who had made a great 
sensation in London for a year or so, and had fled the 
country on the charge of a double murder within his 
own house — that of his mistress and his rival. I said 

nothing of this to Mr. J , to whom reluctantly I 

resigned the miniature. 

We had found no difficulty in opening the first 
drawer within the iron safe ; we found great difficulty 
in opening the second : it was not locked, but it resisted 
all efforts, till we inserted in the chinks the edge of a 
chisel. When we had thus drawn it forth, we fcund 
a very singular apparatus in the nicest order. Upon 
a small thin book, or rather tablet, was placed a saucer 
of crystal; this saucer was filled with a clear liquid — 
422 


THE HOUSE AND THE BRAIN 


on that liquid floated a kind of compass, with a needle 
shifting rapidly round ; but instead of the usual points 
of the compass were seven strange characters, not very 
unlike those used by astrologers to denote the planets. 
A peculiar but not strong nor displeasing odor came 
from this drawer, which was lined with a wood that 
we afterward discovered to be hazel. Whatever the 
cause of this odor, it produced a material effect on 
the nerves. We all felt it, even the two workmen who 
were in the room — a creeping, tingling sensation from 
the tips of the fingers to the roots of the hair. Im- 
patient to examine the tablet, I removed the saucer. 
As I did so the needle of the compass went round and 
round with exceeding swiftness, and I felt a shock that 
ran through my whole frame, so that I dropped the 
saucer on the floor. The liquid was spilled — the 
saucer was broken — the compass rolled to the end of 
the room — and at that instant the walls shook to and 
fro, as if a giant had swayed and rocked them. 

The two workmen were so frightened that they ran 
up the ladder by which we had descended from the 
trap-door; but seeing that nothing more happened, 
they were easily induced to return. 

Meanwhile I had opened the tablet ; it was bound in 
plain red leather, with a silver clasp; it contained but 
one sheet of thick vellum, and on that sheet were in- 
scribed, within a double pentacle, words in old monk- 
ish Latin, which are literally to be translated thus: 
“On all that it can reach within these walls — sentient 
423 


r 


THE BOY SCOUTS BOOK OF STORIES 


or inanimate, living or dead — as moves the needle, so 
work my will! Accursed be the house, and restless 
be the dwellers therein.” 

We found no more. Mr. J burned the tablet 

and its anathema. He razed to the foundations the 
part of the building containing the secret room with 
the chamber over it. He had then the courage to 
inhabit the house himself for a month, and a quieter, 
better-conditioned house could not be found in all 
London. Subsequently he let it to advantage, and his 
tenant has made no complaints. 


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